And if you’re here, I’ve just made an ass of myself with that title.
Yup, I’m back and it…apparently isn’t the end of the world. Which means the twelve men whose asses I pinched last night thinking I wouldn’t suffer repercussions will be contacting the police today and have me arrested. I hope y’all didn’t do something similar. If you did, I’ll be seeing you in the slammer.
Before that happens though, I’m going to admit a very horrible secret about Christmas and holiday stories…I don’t read them in season. I never do. I always seem to read Christmas stories in the Spring and Valentine’s Day stories around Thanksgiving and Halloween stories…well, all year-long. It’s weird. I never seem to be in sync with the publishing industry, which is fine with me. I don’t read something just because it’s about the upcoming holiday. In fact, I think I prefer not to. My holidays never turn out like heroines of the books I read.
That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy holiday stories. I do. But I’m not reading one at the moment. I’m actually reading this:
It’s not exactly a holiday story, but it makes me happy. I do like books that combine humor and emotional torture and zombies. You gotta have something with zombies! It’s the end of the world! Really. Okay, it isn’t.
As for the shopping and Christmas spirit…yeah, I’m not feeling the latter and exhausted from the former. Why is it we drive ourselves insane trying to get the perfect present, braving the crowds and putting a big dent in our wallets when the person getting the present will forget about it in five months? Oh, they’ll love it and adore it and hug it and squeeze it…but after about four or five months they’ll no longer wear it/use it/look at it and then it’ll be time for Christmas all over again and you’re right back where you were before.
Am I ranting? No. I swearz I’m not.
I’m going to go drown my Christmas present anxiety in eggnog and tinsel. Happy Holidays my friends and stay