It's not my failure to post a new entry that depresses me. It's my failure to even realize that I hadn't. I feel I'm descending to a whole new level of depravity, here. Pretty soon I'll be pouring Wild Turkey over my cereal, eating it out of a frisbee at 4 AM while arguing with the teevee, and wondering dimly who wet my pants.
But! Until then, here is a piece of word art that my fantastic and totally undeserved buddy DR34MR made out of something I posted a little while ago. (Y'all check her out - she is so unbelievably real. The kind of gal who can tell a stain from twenty feet, and wear Cheerios in her hair with more class and style than ever came out of a bottle of Clairol.)
Anyway, I think it is especially appropriate here over the holidays, when things often don't turn out as splendid and lovely as Norman Rockwell promised they would, and it is too easy to blame yourself for letting down Martha Stewart, Bing Crosby, and the good people of the KISS Christmas Special.
So here's to love, imperfection, and contentment, y'all. Let's see if we can coax our ambitions out of that fancy get-up and into a nice pair of gravy-stained sweat pants.
--Hang on, Santa. We're coming.
--Hurry, boys. The eggs are
--What do we do?
--Wait a second.
Everyone knows pterodactyls can't stand the screech of a guitar!