Year: 2014

Here we go:  another year in this thing called life.  I think I'm going to Marilyn Monroe my way through 2014.  Rock the curves, take a lot of pills, fuck whomever, and smile guiltily the whole time.  I can't think of a single reason not to be happy or pretend to be happy through every moment in my life.  Even if I'm just pretending, at least I won't be contributing to the belly fat accumulating around my waist (stress - google it.).
I would also like to write my own version of Modern Family, with more dysfunction and mystery.  Actually, I'll probably just write that screenplay in my head and then not share it with anyone, thus maintaining the status quo of accomplishing nothing outside of my day job.  I mean, why screw with a formula that has kept me in moderate pre-bankruptcy for this long??

Or ... maybe I'll just wear 3-D glasses all through 2014, so I think things are more intense than they really are.  This theory might work for hordes of people, making me an entreprenuer.  People can pay me double the regular "life-rate" just to see their life up close(r).

I literally have no idea how I'm going to make 2014 better.  Move?  Change jobs?  Find love?  Create art?  Watch "Frasier"?

Here's one thing for sure:  fewer words in my brain.  Fewer words which interfere with my brain.  That's really all I ask for.  And a new friend.  A friend.  Someone with whom I can share secrets and aspirations and dreams.  (And who is a good snuggler.)  Do such people exist outside of movies??

Plot Twist

A conundrum:  what does a teacher do when a student reveals something highly irregular, ethically questionable, personally dangerous, or totally illegal in a memoir?

Let me qualify by saying that I told all students that they could not write about harming themselves (or anyone else) or doing illegal things for which they had not already seen consequences.

I am currently knee-deep in teenage chaos.  (...Periodically interrupted by intense boredom caused by stories of everyday triviality.)  I don't know now whether to panic about the state of youth or be appalled by my own stodgy old age or just drop some therapy in the margins of their papers.  (I am currently doing all three, depending on the situational necessity.)  I should merit hazard pay for subjecting my entire holiday break to the hormonal insanity of adolescence.

Instead of reading the novels which are piling up (unread) on my desk, I'm reading thousands of other words.  And what is my remedy to this dilemma?  Vomiting more words into cyberspace.

I need a hobby.

Blogging or Something

I just finished a year-long blog.  A commitment which I have finished.  I am so glad to be done with it, because now I have no choice but to write creatively.  I make excuses for not writing every day.   I make excuses for not working out every day.  I make excuses for staying in a shitty marriage every day.  I make excuses; it's what I do.

As cliche as it may sound, I'm ready to start living my life the way I should and not the way I've told myself is inevitable.

So the short term plan is to go have several cocktails.  I'll reassess after I've pulled my head out of my ass later.