No, don't be silly. I didn't die or anything. But whinging isn't fun, and this piece of real estate has always been an honest one and... well, the two twains never shall meet, y'know?
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It's wicked cold outside right now, the kind of cold that makes it hard to breathe, the kind of cold that doesn't look cold because it's all bright and shiny and snow-free, but it's the kind of cold that drops the mercury down to -33C with the wind chill. Wicked cold indeed.
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I've made it my mission to eat every Traditional Baked Good in the house. Twelve pounds of flour, 11 pounds of sugar, 10 dozen eggs... and nothing left for the Yule if my mouth has any say in the matter. Seriously, I'm eating like it's my job! But I'm being very efficient about it, in that I don't have to keep mixing myself a drink to go with the gluttony.
The secret, you see, poppets, is in the rum balls. Always keep your rum balls close.
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