Oh goody, it’s New Year’s. Another sad remainder that one achieved absolutely nothing this year. Less than nothing even. I think some years (this year actually) one (meaning myself) can actually manage to be anti-productive. It so happens that last year I forgot to make a list of resolutions (there is no excuse for it, I know), so this Monday I can at least lick my wounds in peace – and pretend not to remember all the things I failed to do (- to deceive oneself is half the battle). To have one’s failures listed on paper in alphabetical order (you can as well be neat) makes it that more jarring.
As my capacity for self-delusion suffers under the increasing strain of reality, I try to maintain my mental well-being by indulging in exuberance of escapism. Since I’m in a morbid mood, I must adjust my reading choices accordingly. They’re all about death, murder and being suicidal (and that’s just Snow White). I can’t afford to be too “Grimm-looking” (people might start to talk), so I have decided for some textually “lighter” reading. I’m currently half-way through my 3rd Agatha Christie (my weekly total) and the novels are proving to be very amusing. Black humour is much appreciated in a crime story. That Poirot man is one clever fellow. (I’m quite sure he never forgot to write a list of resolutions himself.) Also, human nature being what it is, it seems infinitely more enjoyable to read about other people’s miserable lives.
When I’m not sulking about or venting my Dark Side, I am trying not to bore my friend to death. She is awfully nice and funny and came from Paris to keep me company for a couple of days. My French seems to have reached a new low, so she deserves my respect (she’s truly a saint) for not bludgeoning me to death every time I have the impulse to open my mouth. I take the expression “kill time” very literally. It’s my impoverished survival instinct. It kicks in when the mind senses an upsurge of metaphysical angst.
In truth, I’m boycotting reality. In every possible way. I must say that if it weren’t for my secret power of imagination (“the world’s most powerful graphics disc” according to Sheldon Cooper), I would run the risk of becoming ordinary. The horror … Weird and funky is my thing. Without it, I’m just a sad girl who has imaginary conversations with the neighbour’s cat. (His name is Mr. Sparkler. He’s adorable, but not very bright – much like his namesake from Little Dorrit.) He tells me he didn’t particularly care for 2012 either and awaits the coming year impatiently. Apparently, our cat – Lady Violet, is a difficult cat to please (don’t I know it) and he’s thinking about taking his “business” elsewhere. Tomcats …
I’m not making this up. It’s been a rotten year all around. I’ve moved back home and became the family’s no. 1 under-achiever. Nothing I do ever seems to be right. For example, today I offered to go light the fire and I ended by setting fire to my fingernails (there are no words …). And as I tried to put the flame out, I rose too quickly and hit my head (my parietal lobe, to be precise) against the wall. You could hear the howl of pain a mile away. Not what I would call a successful end of the year.
I don’t mean to imply that there weren’t some bright moments after all, but in the melancholic aftermath of uneventfully bland Xmas, it is hard to remember the days not filled with self-pity and commiseration. The year 2012 is simply not worth to be seen in review (even though it did see the premiere of The Hobbit and the bicentennial anniversary of Dickens’ birth). The last year’s unfortunate omission of New Year’s resolutions and consequently the UnMerry 2012 made me sink in superstitious fancies. Therefore, to interrupt this vicious circle, I’m writing my resolutions down this year. Recycled paper, here I come (I might be in a bad mood, however, that’s no reason to act nasty towards nature). 2013 – you better make me proud.
Photo source: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/picturegalleries/worldnews/4045074/New-Year-celebrations-around-the-world.html?image=3, Photo Credit: Reuters.
Happy New Year Everyone. Remember: There’s always somebody whose year will suck more than yours.