rhapsodic.org

Twenty Five and A Half

My dear, sweet mother has this terrible habit of asking me what I want for Christmas. And for my birthday. And then again for Christmas. Twice a year she asks, and twice a year I have no answer.

Which, to be fair, is the more terrible bit of our exchange: my half-hearted "Iunno" and shrug, causing her exasperated look and sigh.

Even though I completely didn't have an answer for my mother this year, just like last year and the year previous, and even though my birthday is a mere four days away, it's not like I'd pimp my Amazon wishlist or anything.

I have more class than that.

And in decidedly not doing so, I'm noticing the thing is terribly out of date. It's full of random kitchen doodads, some camera that no one in their right minds will ever buy me, and some books and albums I don't recall ever wanting.