Cold Gravy

The goal now is to just plow through the holidays. Having all the holidays fall on Thursdays this year just to fuck with my writing schedule is still pretty on-brand for 2020, though I will admit the annoyance is on the low end of the list of Ways With Which We Have Been Fucked This Year. It's still technically necessary, for example, to say "President Trump." I understand how priorities work. I'll be fine.

But obviously it's Christmas. Happy Christmas to you and yours, if you and yours do that sort of thing. There are things to be said about late-capitalist patterns of consumption that center the object as the subject and the subject as the object, reducing human and human needs to a secondary societal function below that of the object--a constructed thing imbued with abstract attributes by humans all to willing to surrender their own at the first instance--fulfilling its social purpose, but I've got, like, family shit to do. So here is a picture of a dog riding a tricycle.

This is probably the lat post for the year, unless I can find a way to make next Thursday work. if that's the case, please remember to stay safe and as healthy as can be reasonably expected. Which, yeah, I know...