Buffalo of Ember
Dec. 3rd, 2024 10:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoI got up early to biff off to the lab to get my blood drawn. I would say "bright and early," but there is no bright about it. We've entered the long, dark grey tunnel of west Michigan winter mornings. I actually find getting my blood drawn rather invigorating than otherwise, because I like the phlebotomists. I suppose there are cranky and mean ones somewhere, but I've never met one. They always seem to be good-natured morning people. Today's guy noticed my White Tree of Gondor t-shirt, recognized a fellow nerd, and we had a pleasant chat about LotR while he punctured my arm.
We had a Zoom with Deb and the Prussian. I addressed the belated Advent calendars for the kids, and the Sparrowhawk mailed them. I regret to say that on the way home from the lab, I drove past the place where the Sparrowhawk used to work, and I drove down a bumpy, dark metaphorical road to the Bad Place in my own mind. I'm working hard at moving people, one by one, off my Punch-You-In-The-Face-Before-I-Die Bucket List and onto the kinder, gentler Forgive-You-Before-I-Die Bucket List, but those people will be among the last to go from Column A to Column B. I learned recently that the Sparrowhawk's Final Boss lives in Nashville now, and I'd better not go there, because if I do, it won't be for the country music. It will be for some knuckle music, fortissimo. Down girl, down . . . "My dear, the children. Christmas Day." Well, Bob Cratchit was a sweet soul who never would have thought to deck his boss, but I bet Mrs. Cratchit would have put the boot in strategically if she'd had the chance. I can't quite find it in my heart to wish Bad Boss merry and free from care in this happy season, but I do wish him the best of gifts: to see what he did wrong and repent of it. I too have drunk my shots of wrath all smoking hot and needed to beg a cup of cold water afterwards.
We had a Zoom with Deb and the Prussian. I addressed the belated Advent calendars for the kids, and the Sparrowhawk mailed them. I regret to say that on the way home from the lab, I drove past the place where the Sparrowhawk used to work, and I drove down a bumpy, dark metaphorical road to the Bad Place in my own mind. I'm working hard at moving people, one by one, off my Punch-You-In-The-Face-Before-I-Die Bucket List and onto the kinder, gentler Forgive-You-Before-I-Die Bucket List, but those people will be among the last to go from Column A to Column B. I learned recently that the Sparrowhawk's Final Boss lives in Nashville now, and I'd better not go there, because if I do, it won't be for the country music. It will be for some knuckle music, fortissimo. Down girl, down . . . "My dear, the children. Christmas Day." Well, Bob Cratchit was a sweet soul who never would have thought to deck his boss, but I bet Mrs. Cratchit would have put the boot in strategically if she'd had the chance. I can't quite find it in my heart to wish Bad Boss merry and free from care in this happy season, but I do wish him the best of gifts: to see what he did wrong and repent of it. I too have drunk my shots of wrath all smoking hot and needed to beg a cup of cold water afterwards.
