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.