by Ludwig Wittgenstein

Mig is busy with Christmas stuff right now, and therefore has invited me to briefly outline my feelings about the holiday season.

1. This time of year is colder than I prefer; despite my plaid woolen shirts, long strolls on the beach surrounded by screeching, swooping seagulls are uncharacteristically unpleasant.
2. Being a solitary individual I do my best to avoid the swarming crowds of shopping centers. Besides, I’m dead and they would all freak out over that.
3. I would rather have my body waxed from head to toe before each meal than read another “Christmas Letter” from an acquaintance in which they detail at penetratingly stultifying length every last non-event of their past year, pretending to be their children writing it. If, at any point during the rest of my existence I read another sentence along the lines of, “And then mom and dad took us to the lake on summer vacation like they do every year,” I shall without a doubt shit hornets on the spot.

Happy holidays and have a wonderful 2002.
Yrs,
Ludwig Wittgenstein