I almost wrote a post about my hands, the way they fall apart when the furnace comes on, but then I realized that my hands have been shit for the entire year. (Home DIY is not what you call easy on the cuticles, especially not as much paint stripping as I did this year.) I almost dug up a dozen links to products that work on my hands, especially the cuticles, as if you were waiting for just this kind of recommendation. I took a fucking photo of these products and immediately trashed it and came to my senses. I am just not that kind of person; this is just not that kind of blog.
I took a picture of dinner, too, and trashed it. Dinner was red Thai curry, gang pet, and lemongrass broth. It was beautiful, really, but not well lit, and the picture sucked. There came the question of whether I should futz around with the lighting and take another photo or eat my dinner, and, well, there is no picture of dinner here.
What I can give you is this: It's Friday night, and we sat down with South Park beneath this brown blanket, even though the furnace is going. Flannel pants and house-sweaters are at the ready. I'm glad that South Park still hasn't gotten old and sick of itself, that it remains abrasive and rude. I'm glad that Friday nights are like this sometimes and that for twenty minutes I could sit still, let the cuticle oil sink in, and think about something that didn't have anything at all to do with my life, and laugh at it.