When Granny Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy

Dear Blog,

Granny just walked into my room and told me she was mad at me for still being awake.

I wanted to get this post out before Christmas day was over, but I didn't make it. I'm sorry, Blog. I miss you. It's been too long, and I have lots to say, and miles to go before I sleep, et al. But right now, I think it's important we talk about war. In war, it is never a good idea to use truth as ammunition. Which hurts more - the truth, or a right hook? Right hook, obvi. People in soap operas (or my dearest family) never seem to get this concept. When Kelly finds out that Seth's been cheating on her with Mandi, Kelly lets him know Mandi's really his half-sister. But that's hardly enough to get them to stop fooling around together. (I mean, Mandi's cut from marble). The crucial flaw in this is that after a while, the sting just goes away. So what if Mandi's his half-sister? Kelly's been keeping so many crucial secrets lately (is that a baby hiding in your swelling tummy?) that Seth doesn't know a pig from his own eye. Thus he picks and chooses what he wants to believe, and accepts the fact that he may never actually know the truth about anything. So, when Kelly pops out a baby sitting at the dinner table over roast beef, or when he notices that Mandi really does have his father's chin, he isn't shocked. Not one little bit.

Yesterday in the Christmas Ever service, I sat behind a middle aged man who was most assuredly bald. He had a giant circle in the middle of his head where no hair grew, as if someone had put miracle grow all over his head except for that one spot. The perimeter of the giant bald circle was covered in hair. Surrounding it, kinda like the Indian's in Custer's Last Stand. There were a few stray hairs caught on the shine of his baldness, but aside from that, nothing. He had a freckled head, and it was very very glossy. I couldn't figure out how it got to be so gleamy, but I liked it. He must condition.

I better get to bed, before Granny becomes even more irate.

Goodnight, dear, and merry Christmas,

P. I. Staker