Cranky Large Medium reading, 8 December

Go away.

When will you be gone? Any time, now, would please me. Actually, what would please me is if you were to time travel back to when you arrived, and to make it not happen, but since you lack the technology, I will simply hope you leave as soon as possible. Ah, yes, you won't leave until you've had your reading. Miserable cuss. Well here you are, then:

You spend too much time with your nose wedged in a book, especially if it's one of those impractical novels they currently label as "literature." You are competitive, aggressively involving yourself in sports (injuries to others bedamned) and have frequent urges to duck out of town. You are a social butterfly, a wag, and can't get enough of the party scene, especially where you aren't invited. For love, look for somebody who is equally impractical and impulsive. You won't have a great love life, but at least you won't disappoint. Much.

Are you happy, now? Of course not. "Happy" is not in your lexicon. At least you can be smug, knowing you're better off than all these people, who, on this date in history, turned the last page: John Pym, Charles Radclyffe, William Stanhope, Golda Meir, Philippe van Lansberge, George Boole, Pafnuty Chebyshev, George Exton Lloyd, John Davies, Etienne Fourmont, Gary Thain, Marty Robbins, Buck Clayton, Slim Pickens, Luther Adler, Howard Rollins, Eliza Poe, Tris Speaker, José Uribe, Maximilian von Spee, Charles Lightoller, Bob Bell,

John Lennon

and John Mills, Sr.

Till then... we're sans some Johns.
Happy birthday, anyway.