I pulled a sock over my freezing cold foot and cursed whoever invented Saturday classes. Was it really so terrible to let me have one day to myself? The black cat has been tailing me around as if I’ve been dangling its favorite fish on a fishing rod over its head. Put me in the hall of fame for the world’s unluckiest bunch. My birthday went horribly, thanks for asking. I’m annoyed at myself. I’ve collected a pile of tiny stories that I could have written over the weeks I’ve been missing, but none of them comfortably fit into a single newsletter. I don’t even want to edit this piece I’m writing now. So go ahead and sue me if I’m not making much sense. I am the biggest fan of Christmas. I don’t care about not having stockings over the mantel, and I don’t even care that I didn’t see any presents with my name on them last Christmas. Give me Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and hot cocoa, and I’ll pretend I’ve never been given charcoal for Christmas. It’s bad enough that I didn’t get to wear the Anakin costume I’ve worn for four consecutive Halloweens. I blinked and suddenly I’m already signing up for classes next semester. Me failing? A fever dream. And because we’ve collectively given up on the concept of time, our Christmas tree has been up for over a month now. Bear with me here. I am no longer a teenager, which feels wrong. I didn’t even give myself a day before adopting two little critters that I had promised I’d get in my last newsletter from forever ago. I guess I’m twenty and a mother now. A week has passed. The guinea pigs remain nameless. They live very comfortably and get veggie bowls every night at 9:00 p.m. I love them more than ever, but I just can’t give them names. After what feels like a hundred grocery runs, and having to explain to everyone that green lettuce is not the same as romaine lettuce, I’m doing okay now. I have no plans of becoming a villager in the last few weeks of December. I will be sleeping at exactly 11:00 p.m., my bedtime, turning on my night light, and I expect absolutely nothing to disturb me. But do tell me you missed me. That you waited for my email on the Sundays I’ve been gone. Tell me you were anxious and in agony, hoping for my return. And also, happy holidays to those who celebrate it.