Sunday, December 27, 2009

Of Christmas.

My Christmas card for my extended family this year consisted of letting my true feelings about them be known. It can be found here for your viewing pleasure.

My immediate family was intelligent this year and merely got me money (along with a pack of much-needed socks; I'm a practical giftee). This was used to purchase, via pre-order at Gamestop, STO as well as sundries for my trip to Milwaukee. I also purchased a Speedball carving kit for block printing, which should prove entertaining at the least, as well as shaving supplies I desperately needed.

On that topic, my first straight-razor shave went terribly well: I only cut myself three times, I believe. Two were minor--one behind the left ear because it's an awkward angle, and one on my right cheek due to the razor skipping over a blemish.
The third is a not insignificant line on my neck. I wasn't thinking clearly and pressed too hard, and sliced a clean gash in my neck, just beside my throat. It hurts like a filthy beast, but will heal proper, thanks to judicious use of a styptic pencil. Never groom your face without it, children.

My brothers got me a new pillow (which I desperately needed) and a copy of Stan Lee's Mutants, Monsters, and Marvels, which I will thoroughly enjoy. My best friend and his wife got me a lovely rice cooker which will keep me fat even during my anti-social periods. His younger sister made me gloriously sweetened baked goods, and their oldest child got me a pack of Magic cards from the Unhinged set (which I adore!).

A few of my other friends took me out to see Sherlock Holmes, which is a must-see for anyone who enjoys the detective's exploits. They did a wonderful job of showing his cognitive process on camera, something I never thought would be possible. Guy Ritchie also succeeded in making him perfectly socially inacceptable while still lovable, and went with the classic Watson: a trim thinking man who can keep up well with Holmes, in possession of a wonderful sense of humor and adventure. This is in complete contrast of the fat, doddering imbecile normally depicted in film, but is truer to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's source, in my opinion.

My ex-girlfriend's mother dropped in this morning, giving me a wonderful gift: ink pens! One can never have enough ink pens. She called them "magical pens", and said they would keep writer's block at bay. 'Twas terribly sweet of her. I believe, however, she's still under the impression that eventually I will become her son-in-law. This would require her daughter to bleed the freon from her veins and install an actual, feeling, emotionally-capable human heart and subsequently using it to love me. Honestly, I simply don't see that happening anytime soon, but I may be wrong. Stranger things have happened.

That was my Christmas season. What of yours?