December 24, 2009

Fuck You Bing Crosby

Fuck you Irving Berlin, and fuck any notion of a white Christmas.

Not to sound like a whiny pessimist, but it figures that the first time the boyfriend and I plan to host a major holiday, Mother Nature decides to send waves of ice storms and inches of sleet from now until Saturday, making the highways impassable for my meek-driving parents.

And so now the boyfriend and I have $170 worth of food, a spotless apartment, and nothing to do but catch up on Dollhouse episodes for the next few days.

There are plenty of worse things that could happen, and I'm not complaining too much, but still: how disappointing.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.