more futility

Today I taught myself the game of Crazy Eights, a pleasant diversion, with a deck of cards left about by my loutish drunkard of a father after one of his bacchanals and a set of directions printed in a bright soft green font on a piece of dark white cardboard in a book entitled "Gambling For Toddlers." It's meant to be at least a two-player contest; my quest for a second player is yet another manifestation of the difficulties and travails of my horrible, wonderful life. I spent hours trying to impart some of my cardsharp talents to Claire, my idiot sister; but failed utterly to divert her attention from drooling and smelling herself to attend to even holding her cards. She lost every game we played. If this is the sum of all her knowledge and wisdom after over three months of life (has it been three months already? She was born in mid October, and it's now early January, so... yes, three months, right? I'm not sure if I have a complete comprehension of this "counting" thing altogether), I do not hold great hopes that she would be a worthy challenger in any World Series of Poker any time soon. I'm put in mind of the sad king in Ecclesiastes: "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity...."
I have to nap now.

jr