Season's Echidne Greetings

I have an iatrogenic illness.  Caught a bad head cold from my physician during a routine well-goddess-check visit.  Later I coughed so hard that I put my lower back out.  Now I slowly crawl and slither around the Snakepit Inc. hissing and swearing and planning a major malpractice suit.

The silver lining  to this depressing cloud* (other than the money I'm going to win in court for pain and suffering and for looking utterly ridiculous) is that I cannot vacuum even one single room. Or cook.  Or clean.**

I shouldn't whine and moan.  Other people have it so much worse.  They are not me, for one thing.

Anyways.  I wish you all wonderful end-of-year holidays in loving and peaceful company with a temporary amnesia concerning the fact that we are all tied to the seats in a bus careening toward the chasm while its driver yells gleefully "Look, Ivanka!  No hands!"



  

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*  Because of the mortar-like substance in my sinuses, coffee tastes like burned straw and chocolate — my beloved chocolate — tastes GRAY.

**  All that traditionally female party-work which doesn't count as real work but which often means that one feels like after a marathon when the festivities are supposed to begin.