09/01/2026
Dear Diary,
School was called off today on account of a tropical storm that, thus far, appears to have forgotten it was supposed to arrive.
We prepared ourselves for unfavorable conditions, yet aside from a few passing bands of rain, the homestead remains largely undisturbed. The children most certainly could have attended their lessons today, though I understand those entrusted with their care must err on the side of caution.
And so, we are all home.
It is September.
Elora is presently blasting Christmas music throughout the house. (Specifically "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus)
I have chosen not to inquire further.
She did, however, take it upon herself to prepare scrambled eggs for her brother, which was a thoughtful gesture until a portion escaped the skillet and landed upon the hot burner. I regret to report that our home now carries the unmistakable aroma of sulfur and flatulence.
As if matters could not become more peculiar, the dogs have recently rendered the parlor sofa so profoundly dog-like that I finally summoned professionals to clean it. The cushions are now damp and drying in a room filled with the fragrance of burnt eggs.
I fear I have paid good silver to transform the scent of my furniture from dog to wet dog with a hint of sulfur.
Outside, we await a storm that may never come.
Inside, Christmas carols echo through the halls while the furniture dries and the air smells of farts.
Today has been strange.
I believe I shall simply stop trying to make sense of it.
Until tomorrow,
Steve
(AKA Steph)
