My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "So I ran into Krampus at the pool hall." "Oh?" "Well, obviously not the real Krampus. Some guy dressed like him. He said he wanted to stir up Santa Con." "And did he succeed?" "Let's just say he got lots of photos taken with crying children." "Hold on. Let me see if I've got this right. Krampus is sort of a German anti-Santa devil who cuts off bad children's toes, right?" "Well, no. I mean, sometimes he swats them with birch or a whip. Other times he brings a bathtub to cart the kids to Hell. Or drown, or eat, or something." "...A bathtub?" "Not everyone can afford a limo, Aaron. Just saying." "You make it sound like I can afford a limo." "Well, with your Christmas bonus, maybe we can hire one. Cheers." "There's plenty of rum in this egg nog, isn't there?" "More rum than nog, my fr

If I see the phrase "We are stardust" one more time, I'm going to use my frustration to summon a meteor to crash down on every wannabe poet and astrologist's house. We are not stardust. We are more complex than that. To call us the remnants of a massive ball of gas and light is nearly an insult. We are formulas and equations. We are chemical reactions and explosions. We are a tight, dense, compact bottle of potion that, if drunk, can brew an entire galaxy.