Nothing to say.

Last night, to my utter shock and horror, I had nothing to say.  I watched a Preston Sturges movie from 1942, The Palm Beach Affair, and still had nothing to say.  To my utter consternation, nothing has come to mind since arising from a warm bed just a half hour ago, other than to make a pot of good coffee.

This is concerning me.  It may be the drugs I rely on to keep me healthy (Avapro for blood pressure, cayenne and garlic for fun, and several other things that come in shapely little capsules with pretty colors that make me feel like I’m making me feel good.  Got that?)  Of course, I take no vitamin supplement, no, that is bad: recent studies by people with impressive accents have indicated that vitamin supplements are not just useless except in cases of extreme vitamin deprivation, but that they are actually harmful.  One study, which was so British it made me want to burst, said that Vitamin E, in particular, was having such a deleterious effect on the men being studied (it was a study of prostate cancer and its likelihood) that it was abandoned after finding that a statistically significant number of men on Vitamin E supplements actually got prostate cancer at a rate greater than the placebo-taking group.  Yikes, fucking YIKES.  You really have to be careful what you eat.

So, where was I?  Oh, yes, talking about my regrettable (and somewhat uncharacteristic) lack of anything to say.  This happens a lot, and it might have something to do with the weather, which has been very Christmassy as of late.  You know, lots of snow, cold air, short, dark nights, lots of houses all lit up prettily with the latest technology (“Oooh, look, LED Christmas lights!”)  Me, I don’t know.  I saw Christmas carolers last week in Lake Placid and rolled up the car window to shut them out.  They were singing smack in the middle of the line of stores that make Lake Placid the shopping mecca of the Tri-Lakes area.  (They call it the Tri-Lakes area because there are scores of lakes around here, three of which are pretty much near the eponymous towns, which, oddly, are 2 out of 3 not located on said lakes.)  It just seemed kind of crass, them standing out there in the cold, singing religious songs in an setting designed to persuade people to part with their money in exchange for items made by poor, desperate people in lands that know no Christmas.  Perhaps one might call this a cynical attitude, but I wouldn’t call it that.  No, I wouldn’t call it anything, because a.) it’s not so important that I lose sleep over it and b.) as I said earlier, I have nothing to say.


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