I drive under colored lights strung over intersections, mostly the same red and amber and green of the stoplight itself, like it has reproduced. Christmas in grotesque derivation is everywhere. A car with a wreath wired to its bumper honks several times at me.
Friends have tried to involve me in the holidays. Kerrick called with an idea. We’ll sup in a stable on the backs of real live reindeer. Elderly midgets will be employed as elf food-runners, permitted to speak to us only after they’ve sucked from a canister of helium. Won’t that be fun? I hope he’s kidding about the elf bit. I say “no.”
Then we’ll exchange, Dee announces, even though it was decided years ago to stop. They need nothing and I need less, unless someone has access to a time machine that can take me five years backward
