The “holiday season” ends with my birthday (Twelfth Night), and, because that’s my birthday, it doesn’t end any sooner. Where most people return to reality on the second day of the new year, I give myself an extra clutch of days.

Having thrown myself into the spirit of the season, however, I am now so sick of the sound of my own voice that I can’t even write. Sadly or not, however, I expect to recover, perhaps as early as tomorrow.

In search of an image to represent my exhausted state, I turned, not unnaturally, toward the unmade bed from which I had temporarily arisen. “Take a picture of that!” But I have no eye for mess. I don’t know how to make it cohere — as cohere everything must — for a photograph. So I wound up making the bed, and now I don’t think I’ll be climbing back into it. Might as well get dressed!

I mean, that’s how hopeless I am! I can’t do “pooped”!

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
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