Yes. Yes I did get it.

Perry the Platypus mug.

Yeah, you read correctly, I got the Perry the Platypus mug. It's wonderful. First thing I did, wash it. Second thing I did, make hot chocolate in it. Third thing I did, drink the hot chocolate. Ain't it great?

It's got Perry on one side (as you can see), and Doofenshmirtz (I'm pretty sure I just spelled that wrong) on the other. Here, I'll get you a picture!!

Teehee! It says, "Agent P wants YOU to join the agency!" It's wondiferous.

So, was I surprised? Not really...I mean, sorta. I was really...glad that I got it. Have you ever had something like that happen? Like, you're surprised, but you're not, but you're also happy that you got it? *shrugs* I dunno.... I think I was gonna go and try to be profound, and then, I didn't know how. Weird.

There is something though.

Do you know what it's like to be without hope? Or at least feel like you're without hope? I can't say that I have, though I can't say that I really know what it feels like, tangibly, to have hope. It's one of those things I just haven't really thought about, because, I suppose, I've never really been in that situation.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow did, though. Don't know who he is? A poet. Pretty good one, too, apparently. What you all probably know him for, really, is the Christmas carol, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day."

In the summer of 1861, his wife had died in a freak accident - that is, she caught on fire when the wind blew and a hot wax fell on her dress (so the story goes). That first Christmas without his wife, Henry wrote in his journal, "I can make no record of these days. Better leave them wrapped in silence. Perhaps someday God will give me peace." The next year, he said, "'A merry Christmas' say the children, but that is no more for me."

The year after that, his son, Charles, who fought for the Union in the Civil War, was shot between the shoulder blades, leaving him crippled. He didn't write anything in his journal that Christmas.

Think the guy had hope? Not likely. He was depressed and lonely. The next year, he probably would've remained silent, too. But, he wasn't. Instead, he was somehow inspired to write a poem made of seven stanzas in his journal. They spoke of the war, and how he felt the strength of hate, and how he despaired about the lack of hope on the earth.

But, through the course, you could see that something changed. The last stanza goes like this:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep,
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men!"


Somehow, by the end, Henry had remembered that there was peace, and there was hope. Christmas was the season that reminded him. He seemed to remember that it was Christ who brought comfort, not the situations around us. Yes, the death of his wife, and the crippling of his son was tragic, but they weren't his hope. Christ was. The hope of the world.