For the rest of us.
Like most holidays Festivus is a totally artificial construction around a false narrative.
I think I’ll spare you the feats of strength.
The airing of grievances is mandatory. ‘Tis the reason for the season.
I’ve been quite cranky this year, as those close to me will attest. When the hard drive on my Laptop explodes into irredeemable bit dust taking 6 months of work with it please don’t ask me how I feel, I will most likely tell you.
In fact talking about “feelings” at all is fairly counter-productive. I am a great green seething hate ball of rage.
Fortunately I have Natasha Romanova to soothe me.
Or not. Puny God. I have very different memories of Budapest.
However the point, as far as it exists, is that there is plenty to be angry about and directing that energy to productive purposes is difficult. I recommend getting a passport now, no kidding at all. My Germany clock has advanced from 1933 to 1938 and if you’re thinking about stopping in France I’d say that’s not quite far enough.
If you choose to stay and fight you have my admiration, not that I intend to go anywhere myself. Inertia is hard to overcome in a person who’s ego is as massive as mine.
I can make this as personal as you desire though I’m mostly wrapped up in my Rosencrantz.
Did you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it?
No.
Nor do I, really. It’s silly to be depressed by it.
I mean, one thinks of it like being alive in a box. One keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead, which should make all the difference, shouldn’t it? I mean, you’d never *know* you were in a box, would you? It would be just like you were asleep in a box. Not that I’d like to sleep in a box, mind you. Not without any air. You’d wake up dead for a start, and then where would you be? In a box. That’s the bit I don’t like, frankly. That’s why I don’t think of it. Because you’d be helpless, wouldn’t you? Stuffed in a box like that. I mean, you’d be in there forever, even taking into account the fact that you’re dead.
It isn’t a pleasant thought. Especially if you’re dead, really. Ask yourself, if I asked you straight off, “I’m going to stuff you in this box. Now, would you rather be alive or dead?” naturally, you’d prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect. You’d have a chance, at least. You could lie there thinking, “Well, at least I’m not dead. In a minute somebody is going to bang on the lid, and tell me to come out.”
“Hey you! What’s your name? Come out of there!”
I think I’m going to kill you.
