wilderworks

Welcome to January 23rd. I hope today's not your birthday. So says Cliff Arnall, a British psychologist who made headlines last year when he unveiled the results of a formula that used weather, debt, time since the holidays and a few other factors to determine the most melancholy day. In Britain, and places like the U.S. Northeast that have roughly similar climates, it's the Monday closest to January 24, Arnall says. I'm starting to feel it too. I thought it was just because I was doing so well at becoming an alcoholic (and becoming an alcoholic has been my most successful goal in years), but it seems that I'm not the only one feeling like a loser this time of year. I wanted to write more, but it's all either perverse or self-pitying. I try to restrain the amount of self-pity I write, and I'd hate to waste perversity on a livejournal entry, when it's much preferred in my actual writing. I am putting in an official request for a woman in my life.

I think, instead of a writer, I'm going to become an alcoholic. I know, I know. It's not as easy as all that. Hell, I've tried before, and failed. The headaches. The expense. But now that I've quit smoking, I somehow learned to like beer. I can drink one rather fast. I can drink two rather fast too. And that's gotta be the first step. I can get myself a little tipsy every night. Easy. I'm watching a lot of Burt Reynolds movies. If I watch enough, soon I'll be able to listen to football on the radio. Eventually, baseball. Then I'll be up to a six pack a night. And I can switch over to the hard stuff without noticing much. I think I'll be better at being an alcoholic than being a writer. I seem to enjoy it more. And it's natural. Failing as a writer leads to a life of disappointing solitude. Disappointing solitude leads to drinking yourself to sleep. And so, the circle of life. My calendar, it says on Friday, "Epipha