Would that this be a day of reparation and mending. A day of restoration and hard work and cleanliness and productivity.
Instead, it is dripping liquid depression all over the shitty backyard and the mail was nothing but recycling and all the news can talk about is the goddamn GOP presidential candidates, save us sinners and lovers of jowly Newt Gingrich.
Verily I say unto you, There will be no running. There will be no writing. There will be no cleaning, nor cooking of fish or fowl, no laboring of ox and ass. The garments, they will be rent in displeasure and shamefacedness. The brow furrows, like the land that Adam was doomed to plow upon for all his misguided days, and the glory of it shone on none of our kin, nor kin of our kin.
Our wineskins, like our hands, remain empty. Unto you, a Child is delivered, bursting with energy and insisting on making four thousand chocolate truffles in a dirty-ass kitchen, where you will dwell in abundant futility until the hour of swimming lessons is upon us, Amen.