I never liked mint much, yet for some reason I keep trying to convince myself I'll "grow into it," like my allergies. Just a heads up: I don't like my allergies either. Annihilated the chocolate as chips (but now for some odd reason wish I'd made some sort of chocolate candle to sludge up the kitchen table at random intervals, 20/20 hindsight and there's always Hallow's Eve).

Going through dud pieces. Thought I'd update my progress to put more pressure on myself though. I need to find some groups that I don't mind people knowing I'm into.

I have a tendency to go through e-mail addresses like tires. I'll break 'em in, put some mileage on them, and then consider them popped. But that, and identity in general, is a rambling for another night.

There was an unopened e-mail that caught my eye. It was simple, from a name I didn't know: a clear sign of junkmail. "Are you happy?" it inquired. As expected, it was junk (for some antidepressants), but its pull on me still hangs. There's a certain allure to the notion of happiness coming in a bottle, or a pill, or whatever addiction might chase ultimate misery away in trade for a slightly less uptight moment.

It's a question that isn't asked of each other that often. No wonder we flounder around in search of it so often.

I'm normally a confrontational person - when I believe it will be of beneficial effect. Tonight is not one of those nights, so I'm left to muse in my own limited understandings of the world, both mine and the one of those around me.

Tonight I ponder the escapade of someone who is always on the go. They can't, or perhaps just do not wish to hold still. It's now or never, few in-betweens. Are the results good, or better? Do they have the latest gadgets, have they seen the latest movies? That club that everyone is going to: did they get there first?

Yet everything seems so disappointing. Cheap thrills still lead to selling a piece of their soul, needing to have those cute shoes to wear to the latest parade at any cost. Hard work doesn't suit them: too much legwork when they know a shadier but quicker shortcut.

The Joneses have a dark world under those cocktail umbrellas and canopied porches.

Transcribed from a page in my notebook. Hoping that if I post my successes and failures for the whole world to see, I'll work a little harder to actually improve.

Dear New Year,
I'm having second thoughts this year. Last year was a bitter, barren one, much like the ones before it: holidays were just a waste of time and resources to me. I had nothing I wanted to celebrate, and it was just a stinging memorial to my insect-esque nature of thriving off garbage just to survive. I've been frugal as usual; unnecessarily so. The dream house and car are light-years away, more untouchable than even my picky, non-existent sex life.

This year, I'm going to try and step away from the past to forge a better future. It may not be a large step in this quicksand environment, but I'd might as well try to reach a branch before it's too late. I'm going to try and make a minor accomplishment each month so at least I can feel like I wasted this year in style, then aim to do better the next one around. Who knows? Documenting my immense failures and glee at meager, pathetic goals may give some strangers a retrospective "well, at least I don't always flood the coffee like a moron!" and whole new appreciation of life. Or raise a few brows. Either or.

So... for January, I'd like to find a creative use for these leftover candy canes and Christmas chocolate I'll probably never eat. I'll also set a quota here for one rant, one finished piece of art done in January (strike that, if I finish an old piece that'll still be a relief for me), and one slightly optimistic post over two sentences, without a bitter undertone. Spicy? Maybe.