Generally a very tumultuous occasion, Christmas Day specifies that I abide by a very defined modus operandi in order to maximise enjoyment.
At 5:00 AM, I have to pirouette off my bed—all ballerina-like—into my sandals (which I wear with socks) and make haste for the living room without disturbing people. This arrangement is deceptively simple—though the parabolic leap into my sandals took several years to master in the darkness—but acting like a graceful automaton is a taxing procedure, not least because the floor-boards whine really loudly beneath my feet, waking the feline members of the family who like to fondle my legs in search of food. Exhausting operations like this require oodles of Christmas Spirit to execute—so thank goodness for Scrooge McDuck, whose transformation in A Christmas Carol from avaricious, capitalistic Scotsman into hysterical yuletide loony ceaselessly brings about feelings of festive cheer.
But I blame Goofy’s face for my very debilitating fear of elaborate doorknockers. “Scrooooooooooooooge” he drawls.
About me
I'm Jack. Sometimes my hair is untidy, riddled with goblins and smurfs. When I scream into the Grand Canyon, it inspires pained howling in wild dogs and wily coyotes, and compels all leaf-eating mammals to scuttle for higher ground in wait of the great flood. I think Goku is an existential paragon. My life's trajectory is adjusted towards becoming a hermit and dying alone somewhere on top of a golden mountain at sunset. Which is a jolly good innings, all told.
