[What's the name of the game, again?]

It's late night. Isn't it always late night? Sure it is, honey bunny, it's always late night, ain't nothing but late nights anymore. Late nights of thinking too much because it's too quiet in your room. It's too neat and organized and your thoughts have entirely too many tidy little vacant surfaces to bounce back from. They hit you hard when they do, smack dab in the noggin. You never see 'em coming.

You never see them...

Did you know Santa is a product of commercialism? No? Well, why would you? You don't care. Anyhoopla, Santa is like an alagmam-- amalgamation of these different little myths about gnomes and some guy who'd bring you a lump of coal and some saint or other. Red suit with fluffy white trim? Bullcrap. Jolly rotten, drunken flush to the cheeks?

...Not sure about that one. Most of it's bullcrap. And don't even get me started on Valentine's Day. Hallmark? Hellmark, more likely.

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