For the record, I am positively buried in bits of brightly colored plastic. Some of it makes noise. It occasionally cries out jubilantly about the virtues of the letter ‘k’ from some unfathomable position beneath the smooth, shiny rubble as if trying very hard to distance itself from blame in the problem that we can no longer see the floor. Rising above it all, grounded somewhere in the mist of toy-particles stands a monument of plastic and metal that took several hours and a socket wrench to assemble. The likeness of a horse floats on four nylon-ensheathed springs in turn affixed to a steel gantry.
It smiles to me, never blinking. It’s laughter grows slowly in my mind as another ring from the peg is lost under the couch, foreshadowing my trek down into that dark place to retrieve it. I will procrastinate in this, for I am holed up on one edge of the couch, clutching my hurriedly assembled Nerf recurve bow in shaking, sweaty hands, wondering if starvation will take me before madness or if I will have to endure both in the end of days.
Such is the aftermath of Christmas.
Ja.