A Christmas Clio

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A Christmas Clio

Alice Knowlton, Editor-in-Chief

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Did you know that this is the 17th rant I have composed for this fine publication over the years? That’s the same as my age, the number of bottles of coffee in my backpack at all times, and the death count in my latest Jane Eyre fan-fiction. That’s a lot. I’m pleased to have shared all this whining with you, dear reader. You’re welcome. That’s all you get because I’m not sharing the coffee. Before long I’ll have to wrap this sh*t up and figure out how to compose a finale that won’t quite get me kicked out of school before they give me my diploma but will bring the entire school to tears, its knees, and the brink.

But that’s not for a few months.

In the meantime, I have a few other things to do: namely, make it to the beginning of break without snapping and sending a nasty letter and a honeydew melon to whatever calendar planning sadist gave us an extra ⅗ week of school, pluck my eyebrows, and find a way to keep my cat from moving into my Christmas tree on a permanent basis again this year.

I’d like to address in more detail the third of those tasks. Now, I have a cat who is… how should I put this… fat. He’s tubby. He’s chubby. He’s a ball of lard. I would say he’s all fluff, but really, the fluff is just the tip of the iceberg. His name is Blofeld. Blofeld doesn’t let his chub slow him down, at least not when it comes to feeding time, laser pointers, or a Christmas tree ornament just a little too high for him to reach without jumping. He’s knocked over 8 Christmas trees in 7 years and we’re starting to get desperate. We’ve tried baby gates, cat repellent, decoys, and every other fat cat deterrent you could think of, and the dang creature always finds a way. Actually, his original name was Gary, but we renamed him Blofeld when we discovered his criminal prowess.

Now, it’s not like Blofeld is some Grinch or Scrooge or secular private school administrator who has a problem with Christmas decorations. On the contrary, he loves them. It’s just a shame that he expresses his love through destruction— not that I don’t understand feeling the need to break things after these past months. Blofeld hasn’t been applying to colleges— lucky b*st*rd already has his career, he’s a professional seat warmer— but I imagine cats have their own sources of angst that needs venting. Blofeld doesn’t like my pig much. I suppose that’s what Christmas non-denominational seasonal vacation is for, really. Do what you love, try not to short circuit your string lights by chewing on them and starting a damn house fire (RIP living room rug 2005-2016), and vent that stress right away. Fill the void left behind with spreadable cheese and enough peppermint to make you dyspeptic.

Party on, dudes.

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