SOLACE

If you have come here for solace, boogie now. I got no Happy New Year. 

I have been grieving. I am past bargaining and into depression. Acceptance? Ask me after I have had some coffee.

I had champagne and triple cream brie on New Year's Eve. Pancakes with maple syrup and sausages New Year's Day. I am fucking old, so it takes awhile for my liver and brain and heart to get back to normal after all this fucking excitement. And there is no fucking Sun and I am wearing a blanket while I type.

Those who have been reading Real Philadelphia need to know that Ms. Norma and the kidniks are back to honeypots again. I am going to have to finish that fucking story. Walter brought me his extra cookies and a smile.

I am living large, I guess. For now. And watching the Water Protectors. Their fate - our fate. And the first glorious lines of an otherwise dreadful poem keep ringing in my mind:

The Destruction of Sennacherib
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 

Soon my Seasonal Affective Disorder will pass. I will be back to my usual trashmouth self. So it goes. Quoting Vonnegut there.

Do I have to be so political all the time even on holidays? Yes. Yes I do.