Sometimes I type fast.  Most of the time, actually.  But my netbook is old and slow and I’ve not successfully replaced it with something better.

It acts up, it slows down.  I keep typing fast.  Sometimes, the great eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg (as I like to affectionately call Google and all its dominion) look down on me and with a scowl, tell me:

“Something’s not right.”

Indeed, something’s not right.

I had a long essay planned about virtue signalling, The Bell Jar, and why I’m never going to write a novel of fiction.  But it’s Thanksgiving and I dislike the holiday.  I wonder if I ever blogged anything to the contrary?  No, I don’t think I have, although I’ve blogged prolifically about Thanksgiving in general.

The truth?  I don’t like it.  But I’m not going to loosen my dirty diaper’s safety-pin and empty that shice on you.  Because it’s Thanksgiving.

I’ve got plenty to be thankful for.