It's been so long since I've done this. Writing about myself feels weird; I'm used to writing about my characters. Before the end of this post, I will have waded hip-deep through a sewer in search of a kidnapped dog or something. You know, something heroic and ridiculous.
Tomorrow I travel north and see the family which is both exciting and instantly tedious. My Christmas break is like sand slipping through fingers and I need to web that shit up. Spending time with my family is great; spending days is going to be a hassle. But the booze flows freely and there are sure to be numerous gaffes. Ought to be a bizarrely good time.
There is always a crunch to see long-lost friends during the holidays, because everyone left the MOTHERLAND and moved to some far-off locale and good for them, right? But unless the Venn diagram of our lives coincides serendipitously, I have a hard time making the effort. This is probably the reason why most people remember me fondly but loath me in actuality. Honestly, I can live with that.
What else? My generosity with Christmas gifts--at least monetarily--has reached a new level this year. In regard to creativity and personality, not so much. Getting someone a gift they like is great. Getting them the means to get something they love is better, though. Sure, it's basically the gift of more work, but if you don't want the fucking free money I'll find a use for it.
Of course, this is all preemptive. Maybe everyone will love the opportunity to get out and enjoy some after Christmas sales! We are in a recession, assholes. Do your part.
Once again, I'm convinced I'm dying. That's pretty much it. I'm not sure what's killing me, but it's not me. The lack of control in the matter is distressing. I persevere still, because why not? My inner super-villain (Jungle Jim, who takes the powers of all animals in the jungle one at a time) loves torturing those around me.
