I think Festivus is dumb.
I think the Krackle is still in the chicken.
No, I will not knit you underpants.
That was a lot of orange juice.
snow snow snowy snow. I’m glad there’s snow today. No snow on Christmas was getting old.
It’s not a pilgrim dress. It’s a Wednesday Addams dress.
Honestly, Vogue Knitting. Sometimes I wonder about you.
I’m not sure what to do with myself right now. Maybe I’ll watch something.
I have no idea what to watch.
It’s probably too early to take the tree down, huh?
Wow, the windchill is going to be brutal tomorrow. Guess I’ll be staying in.
Never keep a journal in pencil. Or. Always keep a journal in pencil.
I don’t know what that is, Regis.
This thing is taking 3 years to install.
It’s bloody cold in here.
I’m telling you, that cocktail wienie looked exactly like a severed, cooked finger. It even had a nail bed.
I miss Scotch.
I keep thinking it’s Saturday. I’m glad that it’s not.
Goats are such drama queens.
There’s no point in posting today. Is there?
A bubble bath sounds lovely. It also sounds like so much work. Maybe chocolate instead.
You know what? I’m just not really a Sound of Music fan. Sorry.
Dammit! That was not in the budget.
Things You Should Never Do to a Pregnant Woman #37: Touch her belly without asking. Particularly if she’s me, and doesn’t generally liked being touched anyway. Is there anything about my personality that says to you, “Please, hug me at will, invade my personal space, it is my favorite thing”? And then, when she’s mad at you for touching her belly, don’t have the nerve to be offended. You brought it on yourself. Just ASK.
Seriously. Don’t touch me.
I should just make a whole pregnant lady post.
My back hurts. A lot.
I hate the phrase “chick flick.”
This cookie is delicious.
Bah. Cranky and Christmas. I hate that.
The government killed the singing nun!
Uh oh. This was controversial.
“They built a Geiger counter out of coconuts.”
“But they can’t get off the island.”
Passing up reading for Hogan’s Heroes. Strange girl.
I need another cookie, right? Right.
That spine looks like intestines. Oh. Maybe it is intestine.
I don’t think it really counts as a tradition til you’ve done it for a few years.
“Karen! We’ve received a smoke signal from your kitchen!”
are you ready? are you ready? are you ready?
Maybe I’ll just skip Christmas cards next year entirely. Or do a limited edition. They’ll be numbered. You’ll have to win a lotto to get one or something. Yeah. Then you can auction them off on ebay like those fancy White House Christmas cards, (which were designed and made in the Mitten btw).
I wonder if I can sleep in tomorrow. I slept like crap last night. My dreams were terrible. People were awful in them. Thanks awful dream versions of people who made things awful. Meanheads.
Every time I catch the title of my Soviet architecture photography book I think, for just a split second, that it’s a Star Wars book of some kind because of the font and the fact that it’s called “Imperial Pomp.” And, for just a split second, I think, “Why do I have a Star Wars book on my shelf??”
Maybe I shouldn’t stay in. Maybe I should go to all the stores and by all the incandescent light bulbs I can get my hands on. Yes. Yes, that’s brilliant. That’s precisely what I should do.
Someday, when I run out of incandescents, I’m going to mail every piece of shit CFL that burns out to that son of whore Fred Upton. Every. Single. One. With a big fat thank you note attached. And by thank you, I mean a photo of me giving him the bird with my most evil smile. And the evilest eyebrow. Commie RINO rat bastard asshat.
Heh. Sorry. Christmas Christmas happy joy merry happy stuff. Whee!
I keep starting this book and then putting it down. For months. Over and over. I don’t know why. It’s not like it’s awful. I just. I don’t know.
What IS that noise??
I should dust. It’s getting dusty in here. Maybe I’ll dust. Dust and buy light bulbs. Yeah.
plink plink plink plink plink plink plink plink plink plink plink
I never do anything on New Year’s Eve. I haven’t done anything on New Year’s Eve in years.
Well. At least we know I won’t be hungover for next week’s Random.
the madness is called Dr. -JenniferBot
Well there you have it.
Happy Christmas from the Compound. Be good, have fun, fight the future by fighting for the future.