I haven’t done any serious writing lately, which is to say I haven’t spent much time on attempting output of higher quality than the occasional Google search for a chupacabra, not that I’ve had no desire to yuk it up. It’s been a difficult few months at work with a lot of employee turnover and hasty preparation for the holiday season, but I’m now almost caught up. One associates December with ringing cash registers and all that, but a retailer’s really busy time, behind the scenes anyway, is September through November. If you did it right, December should be just coasting.

Of course, I have made no preparations for any personal holiday celebrating. Long-time readers know that I’ve never exactly been a Christmas fan, and the stretch between my birthday and New Year’s is always particularly anguishing. I suppose I’m lucky that I get to have all of my “time marches on and what have I accomplished” angst conveniently condensed into one week, whereas some people have to roller-coaster through it twice annually. I don’t think we’re getting a tree this year since we aren’t having any guests and don’t have to put on airs; I have no idea what anyone wants as a gift; and as usual, our Christmas cards will probably not get posted until Groundhog Day. Also as usual, everyone else seems to be more on the ball: there are colorful envelopes peeping out of the month-old stack of mail inside the front door. One day, I’ll get around to opening them (oh, and paying the bills).

Lastly, I’m taking three medications whose actual efficacy seems to be minuscule, whereas their side effects are legion. The mad scientist just doubled the strength of all of them and said they have until the first week of January to produce results, or else Santa won’t bring them any presents.

I’m supposed to report any suicidal impulses immediately. It’s a wonder I haven’t had any.