It is, of course, that time of year again during which I make many claims of good intentions. I claim intentions of writing more, of reading more, I claim intentions of losing weight and of de-stressing myself. I claim intentions of taking more pictures (not this year, as I find myself without a camera), and I claim intentions of living my life with the same gusto and “fuck it” mentality of my dog. I make all of these claims now, in the bitter cold of January, only to return in the not-quite-as-bitter-yet-still-cold of March to apologize, to you and to myself, for accomplishing life’s equivalent of fuck all.
I do plan on writing more (both in this dearly neglected blog and the world of fiction), I do plan on losing weight, I do plan on reading more books. We’ll see, maybe this will be the year. Maybe it won’t.
We’ll all be dead in 2012 anyway, right? John Cusack wouldn’t lie to me. I’ve seen too many of his movies for him to lie to me.
Though I never did see Hot Tub Time Machine. Sorry, John.
Right, off I go. I’ll shower, I’ll dress, I’ll call for the bus. Then I’ll spend a few hours lifting heavy things and stocking shelves and then I’ll come home and collapse and sleep.
Sick of all this god damned snow,