Dear internal reproductive organs:

Fuck off and die.
Love,
the Management.

Christmas shopping might actually have been fun if I hadn't been feeling like keeling over at the end of it.

There were nice sales assistants who, although they couldn't do what I wanted, were very nice about it, and told me I should join the diplomatic service and get an overseas mansion with slaves and stuff.

There were tall, gangly teen boys playing on the machines in Target, with a black kitten crawling across their shoulders, pushing it back up when it fell down or got in their way.

There were obnoxious girlies in the toilets, singing Christmas carols and mouthing off. Unfortuantely, by then, I wasn't in the mood to collect stupidity, and they just annoyed me.

But vast number of presents successfully got. And even a haircut.