My kids aren't being funny. My husband isn't being very funny. My cat is dying a slow miserable death and I can't afford to take him back to the vet, which is so unfunny as to break your heart. I could tell you all about the three parent-teacher conferences I've attended over the past two weeks, but the basic conclusion would be Boy is intellectually immature and Elder Miss is turning into a moody loner who prefers books to friends, and this strikes me as, well, singularly unfunny. As would be the long screed of
Um, because you're a cold-hearted bitch?
See? Unfunny, and now I'm crying.
I don't do well with the perma-gloam of winter in
I am being smarter about my reading material this year though. Khaled Hosseini has been banished, and anything revisiting the Holocaust can wait unitl after Easter along with Boy's delayed education. I'm spending this winter with two of the fattest science fictiony bull shit novels you've ever seen--Pandora's Star and its sequel. A thousand plus pages of mindless drivel each. Not exactly the most inspiring prose ever written, but it'll get me through to January in one piece.
So, I'm still here. I'm just not writing much.
I go through this every year. I'm fine. Whatever.
Tis' the season, right?