This year, Christmas sparkles a little differently for me — the lights twinkle brighter, I don’t find it all obnoxious that the radio stations have had the same 10 holiday songs on repeat since October, and I’m reconsidering my beliefs on Santa Claus. This is the first holiday season in four years that I am not working retail. I’ve considered all the spare time and sanity I’ll have to share with me loved ones, but have come to the decision that I’m out for blood instead.

I want my own sordid version of revenge, and Black Friday is my best opportunity. I ought to be in a tent outside of Best Buy right now, in my brother-in-law’s hockey pads and mouth guard, prepared to do battle for a TV or a video-game console, or just for the heck of it.

What pushes someone to this level of crazed vindictiveness? Last Black Friday, I was trampled in the name of overpriced underwear. My shift started at 2:00 a.m., and by 2:03 I was lying on a cold, marble floor, a fallen soldier in the fight for the “free” tote that comes with $65 purchase and the sacrifice of one’s dignity.

I still have flashbacks of the mob of high-maintenance women lurking outside the store gates, waiting to attack. They were the kind of crazy that got dolled up and wore heels to go to the mall in the middle of the night. Those heels, in retrospect, played a crucial part in the Black Friday survival of the fittest…

I realize that sharing the “secrets” will probably render me ineligible for rehire, but it’s a risk I’m more than willing to take. I spent four years as a part-time employee at Victoria’s Secret. The company pushed for holiday cheer — Christmas is the great panty-giving holiday— but I never understood the slutification of a children’s holiday that has some apparent religious undertones. I refused to wear the sexy Santa hat, but was forced to endure three different versions of the breathy “Santa Baby” for 14-hour shifts at minimum wage.

Upon hire, they tell you the “secret” is a great-fitting bra. Upon quitting, I can safely divulge the true retail “secret.” Brace yourselves, this might hurt.

That “free” tote isn’t free. The “sale” prices on Black Friday are an over-hyped attempt to get customers to behave like savages. When the cashier smiles and tells you to have a nice holiday, she really means, “I hope you choke on your turkey,” because she hasn’t seen her own family all month.

I have been that same sleep-deprived, irritable, panty-selling robot. I ought to empathize with other victims of the retail industry, but I do not. This year, I’m seeking revenge. I’m smart enough not to fall for the “sale” hype, but I’m still heading out to throw some of my own punches.