An ancient custom.
A couple of days ago my cat Harry left me a magnificent gift underneath my computer desk.
At least he thought it was magnificent. I was somewhat less enamored of the eviscerated river rat he’d delivered unto me.
Christmas fast approaches me, like a brightly bedecked train. This means at some point I will probably end up in a mall. I have no intention of going to a mall but the blasted places have their own gravity, and they suck in the whirling, sweaty masses in a blasphemous ritual that smells like food court and feet. The last time I was in a mall proper (as opposed to creeping past it to go to the movies) I could actually feel it sapping my patience to the point that I was half feral by the time I’d reached the store I needed to go to.
It was all of forty feet from the front doors.
I do not do well in malls is what I’m trying to say. And yet I will inevitably find myself in one this coming weekend; a sweaty, angry sacrifice on the altar of the Emperor in Red.
Other than slightly depressing Christmas rants I don’t have an awful lot else to report. It’s been a pretty bad year for virtually everyone I know, so I hope this December brings at least a little hope of something good.
And may your enemies never be able to remember what they were going to Google.