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W
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ell, I let Epiphany slip away somehow, in part because I’m not
feeling really well; my terror of leaving the house is kicking in with a
vengeance right now. Still, I’ve got a few minutes left before Christmas gasps
its last here in the Pacific Northwest, and so I’ll say farewell to a season
fraught with horror, filled with nausea, and generally shitty. Nothing I write
matters anyway; I’m just doing it as a sort of exercise while I wait for the
demons in my head to get off their asses and start doing their damn jobs.
If I were doing my
job I’d probably review the various low points of this particular season, from
the childishness of the NYPD when faced with institutional tragedy, to follies
of the British Royal Family, but I’m not up to it. My vision is shaky, I’m
feeling crappy, and doom-shaped clouds are lurking just over the horizon. I can’t
see them, but I know they’re there. With the cheer of Yuletide behind us and the
cold ghastly fires of Sheol ahead, we are frog-marched into an uncertain
future, knowing only that whatever awaits us, it can only be worse than what we’ve
already faced.
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