diary-esque

I have resolved two things for the new year: start drinking whiskey and start dancing occasionally. Will it be a lot of whiskey that I drink, with just a little dancing? Or will I dance a lot and drink only a bit of whiskey? Let's hope it's the latter. Also, I only have Bushmills, which is clearly not Jamesons and could get me in trouble with my Irish drinking ghosts. And that only kind of dance I've paid any attention to recently is the "Walk It Out" hip-hop step, which is dumb and I already am pretty awkward at it.

I like coffee but it's not like coffee is going to save my life. I remember a time when I thought flesh, not my own, would save my life. I like good beer but it is on no help, except in killing time, where it excels. I like reading books: ditto, a time-murderer if there ever was one. I like my children and my wife, but I'd like to give them more money and more things than I currently give them, instead of less. I don't like driving. I don't like meetings. I don't like waiting around for stuff. I don't like reading the newspaper much anymore, that is, I read it a great deal more deeply than I used to, but almost all the news me with dismay. I don't like the sun rising. I do like the moon coming out but lately it's been too cold to take much more than a quick look at the moon and then leave it be. It's hard to remember the moon the next morning and how it was particularly nicely.

Memory on the whole is harder. There is more and more to remember. Much of it I've already remembered at least more than once out loud: it's annoying to revisit and re-remember and try to do something different this time around.