Merry Christmas to me

If a tree fell in a forest and hit a mute would anybody care?

Its Christmas Eve. A good excuse to drop the ball and chain and grab a chair at the table, endulge, and play dumb and remember the previous note last Christmas ended on, inhebriated with a dance-opic twange called walking to the toilet, stumbling, and time-travelling for a couple of hours. Theres some toil in the back yard I've gone 50 percent on, as a consequence of mother nature and devotion to work. The former being non-hypocritical. The tools hav'nt moved far, more precisely, lying in the exact semi-comatose state I left them in, and in some lubricious way, me too. Both auspiciously flawed but intentive. If theres any pro-action it'll be tomorrow on Christmas Day, a rear-guard initiative with an ambush derivative, so-to-speak. I'll feel so heteromorphic about applying myself to the rigours of tropical suicide that I'll make a good grip of a tool I abandoned once before. No good block-laying inspiration when the unanimated version sifts away the cemented vision beyond hope to continue. Ah self-deprication the anti-thesis for a voyage with Captian Morgan, and maybe Doctor Who if the toilet trick re-materialises.
The wall thus far looks quite grand actually. Who am I kidding. The idea is semi-materialistic in construct, or half-finished in plain linguino. I left the barrow on its side on purpose, I hate mosquitoes. The rain brings mainy cool things, but their not. I think Campers are the excuse mosquitoes need, and those foolish to bare chest and brave the composite conditions ideal for a Christmas Feast, or a Monsoonal meal. I need a personal assistant to provide a slap force-field, ahhh Captain Morgan, my warp factor to numbness. It's late and technically Christmas Day, Merry Christmas. Oh such a busy day, wheres my glass?