It’s that time of year where I neglect the ol’ blog. Holidays and whatnot. I’m actually writing this on an 11-inch Macbook Air at the Aventura Apple Store, where a bunch of soccer moms and foreign dudes with pointy shoes look like they’d be willing to fight each other with knives and zip-guns over the last iPod.
On the subject, Christmas, for those not yet aware, is still a crazed beast with an insatiable hunger. Every year it seems to be a bigger fucking deal than the last. Exponentially. Last year it was 150% more crazy than in 2008. This year, it’s 150% more crazy than it was in 2009. And next year, it’ll be… you know what? I’m sure you all know what “exponentially” means. Moving on.
Maybe it’s my unabashed heathenism, but the bitterness and cynicism is strong in me this time of year. This is supposed to be the “happiest season of all,” and yet everyone looks like they desperately need to down a bottle of chill pills (which, curiously enough, are on sale at GNC for $39.95 a bottle). Ultra-conservatives would probably blame this on the brazenly fictional “War on Christmas.” I wish that were even partially true. Then maybe my desire to punch Saint Nick in his jolly gonads wouldn’t be completely out-of-context.
I’m sure I’ll get around to writing shit of substance again, but it’ll have to wait, as, alas, I’ve just moved into a new apartment and will have no access to the interwebs until the 5th of January. Fuckin’ AT&T. Now I know how Anne Frank must have felt.
I know, I know. Too soon.