Dear Friends
"What is this? A short story?" I asked.
"A holiday letter," Gloria said.
Holiday letters are generally what you would get if reality television had children and those children were raised by hummingbirds.
What those children wrote would be holiday letters.
"I can't read this whole thing," I said. This letter was actually from someone who I like very much, but her holiday letters have the folksy density of osmium.
This particular holiday letter, received for many years, has also proven itself to be uncomfortably personal. I can't handle the emotional full monty. I know my limits.
"What does this mean?" I asked, skimming. "'I'm thinking of becoming a farmer's market.' Is that physically possible?"
"It seems unlikely," Eli 19.4 said, laughing.
"What is this? 'Colby Bryant'? I need an Enigma machine to decipher this."
"Maybe she doesn't know the right name for Koby Bryant," Gloria said.
"She's a sports person," I said. "She knows. This can only mean that there's some awful cheese reference earlier."
"Go find it," Eli said.
"Are you kidding? I'm not jumping on that grenade for you," I said.
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