Am I early for Christmas, or late? But that doesn’t matter, does it?
Three hours of scanning the day’s nooze, and I’m worn out. What a load of crap. I suppose I should be deliriously happy, watching the Democrat Party self-destruct; but it’s a sorry sight, no dancing in the streets.
This hymn came into my mind about an hour ago, and doesn’t want to leave.
“Christ is born” is still The News. We have every reason to rejoice in that.
I’ll bet he feels jollier than I do.
I am trying to finish writing Ozias, Prince Enthroned. So close to being finished! And so many obstacles strewn in the way. I also had another typically bad nooze story to report, but didn’t have time before I had to go to the hospital.
I will try not to write about this every day, my readers will get tired of it. Five weeks of this. They make you stick your face into a kind of rubber toilet seat, shins up, back bent–fantastically uncomfortable. I pray Mr. Cancer will find it even more uncomfortable than I do.
(St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital is actively promoting sodomy to children. And contraceptives. There. Do you wonder why I didn’t have the heart to write it up?)
Just now I feel totally worn out. Oh! And they’ve brought back the masks. Everybody has to wear them at the hospital. Allow 60 seconds for sighs of frustration.