You know you've become a bilious cynic when you catch yourself grumbling about the ubiquitous displays of public gratitude this time of year. That's when you say to your execrable self, sugar, it is time to take your pulse, smooth your creases, and pull the stinger from your tail.
It's not the gratitude so much that rankles as it is the ubiquitous nature of this world we live in. It's the metaphoric blowing of floofloobers, the social media banging of tartinkers. It's the tooting of whoohoovers, the slangs of slooslonkers.
Cause and effect. Take a note. Did you catch that diagnosis? What's the frequency, Kenneth?
The doctor tells me that although my cholesterol is a little high and he would like for me to take the one pill to make my happiness big and another pill to make me small, I am in rude health and have plenty more years ahead of me as long as I don't step in front of any overloaded sleighs pulled by tiny dogs with antlers tied clumsily to their heads. He also counseled me to stay home on Black Friday.
"No worries," I sneered, the white paper crinkling under me. "I plan to sleep in, have some roast beast for a late lunch, watch my heart grow two, maybe three sizes that day."
He chucked a brochure at me and said something about gratitude having its own healing properties.
You don't have to be a doctor to know that.
I love all y'all.
Thank you for being here. I'm grateful for you.
