I find myself writing a poem.
This is a scary thing. Not content with bumbling my way through stories about extraterrestrial plants, grave robbers, and girls who turn into mushrooms, my brain suddenly feels the need to inflict poetry upon the world.
I will blame the holiday sweets currently drenching my system in sugar. Or possibly the excess of sleep. Words are suddenly shiny and irresistible and I want to cram them together into one vivid blur.
Christmas was very gentle, very slow, and very nice. We woke up late, ate French toast and surprisingly delicious berries, and opened presents. The rest of the day was devoted to movies (there's something oddly charming about a family chortle at Goldie Hawn with a hole in her stomach in Death Becomes Her), napping, and playing with the dog, who loves her new toys so much that she keeps picking them up and carrying them to new places of honor on different chairs.
And now it's bed and curling up with the new issue of McSweeney's and being surprised that Christmas is over and it's almost time for a new year.