69

NOTE: THIS IS NOT A COMPLETE ENTRY. I DON'T KNOW IF I WILL FINISH IT OR NOT.

Today is March 8th. In ten days, I will be twenty-five years old. A point such as this is a great moment for reflection. Doing that cliched nearing-a-birthday activity, I look back and wince, whine to myself about the obstacles that I've encountered over the past year. Taking some salt to that wound, I then think about the things I've lost, the bad habits I've picked up. It really would require a great deal of caffeine coupled with an appropriate amount of amphetamines to be blunt about these issues, especially to be able to compose them. That is a task destined for self-pity, sadness, a wallowing of sorts in my own muck. I'll pass on that today.

It'd be one thing if I didn't feel so damn stuck. May caught me by the laces and didn't let go. Far too much of my 24th year was spent in May or its memories. I don't have much perspective on myself over the past ten months. That's how perspective works, though. How unfortunate-- so much could have been done and done well if I'd only used the energy that I absorbed from my visit to New Orleans as fuel rather than as, I don't know, I'm lacking a metaphor here. All I'm saying here is that I wasted something valuable. I used something and threw it away, when it was definitely something that could have been recycled. See? This is me, wallowing the greatest wallow of a wallower.