Home alone, feeling reflective or otherwise emotionally riled for no real reason, and in possession of a lot of Jack Daniels. Four bottles, in fact. Obviously I’m only going to have like two glasses; it’s just interesting that I have so much in the house at the moment. Good to know it’s there, I guess – though I will have to pick a different alcohol when I eventually go to the supermarket to do my “will I still get ID’d now that I’m thirty?” test.
So anyway, here we are. On the verge of an ending and at the brink of a beginning. And it’s supposed to be poignant, or some shit. Never mind the fact that 1st January is just another day – well it is, but the fact is, sometimes we need prodding. A lot of the time we need prodding, actually. Humans need a special event, a particular number, a date to tell them that they can change, make things better, start again. We need that. So, far be it from me to diminish the meaning of New Year. The fact is, I just don’t like it this year.
I’ve managed to get through the Christmas period okay. Apart from the day itself, and Christmas Eve, most of it has been working in a
doss-like way. Sending pitches for writing gigs I fancy. Article writing, and such. Not much actual writing, you understand – mainly work of the searching and applying variety. It has been wonderful, in a hermitish kind of way – and the parts that haven’t been hermitish have been a good distraction. That is, a distraction from the fact that if this last month has been Part One, someone has recently announced “After the break we’ll find out what’s wrong with your
body this time and whether it’s going to be a major inconvenience or actually kill you. Stay tuned!” And January, you see, is after the break. “And we’re back!” You can’t change the channel. You’re part of the programme. You didn’t audition, but there you go. Sometimes you get the parts you never wanted.
I digress. What I actually wanted to do was (I feel like this blog post has a weird vibe, just putting that out there right now) to write some kind of 2017 roundup thing. Because someone on Twitter asked what everyone’s top three achievements for this year have been. So I said completing my masters (and with a distinction, I should have added), hosting a successful online book launch, and finally attempting therapy. I say attempting, because it didn’t go like I hoped it would. Anyway, I would add a couple of others to that list, which would be to have turned a work friendship into an actual, out of work friendship – which has never happened to me before. Joint effort, and super
important to me. The other thing would be that I went to Stockholm. Oh, and I did my first paid writing gig, unrelated to my full-time job. I would like more of that next year, and more being published. And getting an agent for my novel. But right now all I dare ask of 2018 is that I get through it without too much health problems/stress, and that that sort of thing doesn’t get in the way of me going to Florida in May.
Last night I had a dream that we were being dragged out of our homes by terrorists, but the terrorists were actually unarmed children and there was really no reason to be afraid of them, but afraid we were. I know what that’s supposed to be a metaphor for. Very clever, sub-conscious. Well done.
2017 has not been an easy year. I wish for ease. I make no resolutions because I fear the year is beyond my control. So I wish for support
and understanding and ease of living. I daren’t look forward to or hope for anything else until I know I’m okay.
Well fuck, that’s depressing, isn’t it? I feel really self-conscious about being too glum or infecting other people with my anxiety. Like my moods could be a problem for other people. I don’t want to be a problem for anyone. Including myself. Humans need a lot of reassurance, don’t we? I’ve been thinking about that lately, too.
Today I’ve been wondering exactly how painful foot tattoos are.
I’ve been listening to Unforgettable by French Montana and Silence by Marshmello and Khalid, and I’m in love with both of them. I am sort of looking forward to my commute again next week so I can listen to Greg James again on the drive home. I miss Greg. I know I could listen to him at home, but I end up doing other things.
I straightened my hair yesterday and I realised how long it’s getting and I love it.
There we go. Ended on a couple of positive notes, at least.