The minnow and the trout.

It is the blackest part of night, and I sit curled up against leopard-print pillows, listening to Joni Mitchell and warming my innards with chammomile tea. My skin reeks of pizza twined with Kahlua after a late-reaching night rich with slinging bar-starrish teens obscure shots, etc. The emptiness of my apartment has never felt more heavenly, I think, as it does right now. I am cuddled down in my brother's hooded sweatshirt (stolen), and gitch only. Pants slash dress slash skirt are undeniably and consistantly the first articles to go once stepping through the threshold of home after a string of hours spent in server slaveland.

Our Christmas tree is long-dead, and it wilts from across the living room, a sadly skeletal mess. To do: dispose of all holiday-inspired plants (there is also sickly poinsetta lingering on our coffee table). Also, to do: purge through closet and whittle down the copious amounts of articles in my possession. I do believe I am through with clinging on to miscellanious objects that only my inner eighty-seven year old can rationalize keeping. Gone will be moth-eaten sweaters from ninth grade, birthday cards dating back ten years, and make-up from the mid to late '90s. I am not exaggerating. I hang on to things. It is my wistful and sentimental side, and it is a powerful one.
To do: grit my teeth and thrash my way through to the finish of "Crime and Punishment."
To do: slay the crossword come tomorrow morning.
To do: stop spending money that doesn't even exist in the flesh.
To do: spend some serious face time with myself.
And so on and so forth.

Tonight I discovered that I will be working to shed my Euro-iduced debt into the wee hours of the morning on New Year's Eve. At first I felt a little gutted, but as the black-and-white reality of the penciled schedule before my eyes set in, I became quickly okay with the situation. Inevitably, I have found year after year after ghostily repetitive year, that New Year's extravaganzas fail to deliver the brilliance I expect. To be shimmeringly honest, I usually don a pair of drool-worthy heels (that end up murdering my feet by the night's end), drinking too much crystal-cool vodka, and more often than not, ending up in tears. So the sordid story goes. Needless to say, there is a lackluster theme that prevails. Last year, I spent said oh-so-anticipated night with a lover at a metal show, where I melted into the crowd unnoticed and unrecognized. It was lovely. And so, this year, I will breathe yet another breath of fresh air, shelve my killer Parisian footwear, and shroud myself in head-to-toe black for a quiet night of travail. It is actually a stragely refreshing prospect, void of lofty hope and exprectation. An air of sadness, aloneness and overwhelming disappointment will hopefully, if not surely, elude.

I am feeling already that this winter shall be one of hibernation and softness for me. Books, journals, hot yoga, dinner parties, nights hunched over the Scrabble board, records, tea, wine, films, fakey fireplaces, hot baths and some gritty self-reflection, as it stands, are the tentative lineup. So far, so good.

Be well and happy, all of you whose eyes touch on these words.
You are loved and cherished, know that.
RB