I'm officially disowning New Year's Eve.

Happy fucking New Year everyone.

"America's Party" will be gearing up on the Strip in under 24 hours now, and with the snow (read: WTF?!) in the valley this morning, my thoughts turn to one of the Christmas cards we received at work from the LVCVA.

Perhaps my favorite Christmas card of ALL time.

[No artist info, no copies to be found on the web (at least with my miminal slacker glancing around google images anyway)... but it's brilliant - so if anyone knows anything....]

Looks like it's time for me to head off to bed, crossing my fingers for more impossible snow...

And now for something completely different.

A Bible for the modern age and the disciple bored enough to follow its teachings.

The thing's on my coffee table, and it's eyeing me like it knows something. (Maybe it's trying to scare me into following along with "Propose to a complete stranger Day.") I'm on to you, book!

What do you say to the faces who want you to believe they've grown all up when all you want to do is turn back?

"Christmas just doesn't feel all that special anymore."
"Oh no, I know what you mean. I just can't wait for it to be over."
"What about you, Jenny? Aren't you just sick of it?"

Inside my mouth, bounce an army of childlike "I can't wait!" and "Presents!" and "Only 5 more days!" but my pursed grin does the talking - a short "Aren't we all so grown up and cynical" glance above my head.

Am I the only child left in the world, or is everyone else lying?

I'd like to extend my gratitude to the person who reached this site looking for "chants for the return of lost or misplaced things."

Reads to me like the title of my favorite album I've never heard.

Hope you find what you've lost.

I've never been one for typical little girl fantasies - knights in shining armor, doughy little babies, a wedding overflowing with flowers.

No fuss, I'd say. Why make a fuss and force everyone into unnatural clothing and ritualistic formality?

So when my mother threw me the get-thee-to-the-courthouse suggestion, my disappoinment with the idea was just a bit out of place. Inside my brain, the mechanism of anti-sentimentality snapped like wicker, and an army of wishwashy ideas claimed the land as its own.

All this translates to a "Premier Bride" magazine placed conspicuously on the coffee table, and an ominously titled theknot.com link lurking in my favorites. Subtlety! the masses proclaimed sarcastically.

Ultimately? I've decided, fuss - yeah, I could handle a little fuss. We'll see if a certain someone can handle it too...

That's it. I've figured it out.

Cats and Christmas are just not compatible. Nope.
Not one bit.

Errrrrrrrr.... (continues re-wrapping claw-ravished presents)

ellipsis

let’s get down to the nitty gritty.
i’m not talking to you;
i’m talking past you.
one day you will hear that
in the echo of my voice
rushing past your ear
to reach the drum
of something special.

i come so close
to believing that lie.

fuck fuck fuck.
i’ll not give it all away,
betray my King and Country
for a horse without a saddle.

…

some nights i nearly want it
to wrap my fingers through it,
clench my jaw and
bite the bit.
your apple offerings entice me.

but you're still too frozen guiltless
and I can still be past this
i can be
i can
just sliding on by like a pause in your mouth

Looks like I'm taking a bit of a break.
I've got festivities to partake of and Firefly episodes to watch (again and again and again and...).

Maybe I'll be back in the thought-process saddle next week. Maybe not. I'm certainly not holding my breath.

Five minutes later, I was still tasting blood. Metaphorical blood, maybe figurative, imaginary, desired and craved, but all there nonetheless. And she was long gone, and I hoped, nursing the wound from the chunk I took from her.

Yeah, you run away.

It’s not like you were ever whole to begin with.

"Here we come a-wassailing..."

was·sail: A festivity characterized by much drinking.

Gangs of drunkards stumbling down the street, yelling out lyrics as loud as their swimming lungs will let them. That's beautiful, people. 'Tis the season. Hope everyone's having a good one so far. I know festivities involving much drinking sure hit the spot with me, unfortunately sometimes they also involve hair being incinerated. But let's not dwell on that. (grumblegrumblewholeavescandlesonbarsanywaydamnit?grumblegrumble)

I, for one, have accomplished little but am enjoying every last lazy, festive minute of it.

The annual Christmas picture for work is going down tomorrow. I'm as excited as a squirrel on a highway.

Hey, at least it'll make the day go by just a little faster. Yep. And when it's all through, we'll drink hot cocoa and hold hands and pretend we actually like our jobs.

(sigh)

Some nights I dream that my tongue is dancing with the smoke from a vanilla cigarillo, curling the ghosts of some buried desire and letting them slide into the air.

The edge of my chair is beginning to feel more and more comfortable as the weeks go on.

See, I've been putting off Christmas shopping like a mofo. It's what I do - every year - every freaking year. I become very familiar with the edge of my desk chair, saying, "Really, I'm going to go. Here I go. I'm ready to leave." Christmas Eve has become my designated day of Oh-shit-I-have-to-shop-why-the-hell-is-there-so-much-traffic, and it's inevitably an extravaganza of frustration and worry and disappointing gift choices.

"But not this year!" I told myself optimistically with a finger in the air, and then my shoulder angel handed me a cookie and I felt like I'd accomplished something.

Thing is - I still haven't gotten a single present. Not one CD, DVD, beer stein, or dust collector. 23 days to go, and I'm beginning to think something's gone horribly awry with my good intentions.

I blame the chair.

You don't fully comprehend the importance of communication until you've lived with a bird.

Damn, I wish I could speak Lovebird.