Every Christmas I begin to write down my New Years resolutions. A very depressing and somewhat masocistic tradition. The long list of how I will change myself so that it resembles a life so beautiful.
Nothing works anymore it seems.
My writing is inarticulate. I look at Bukowski books and remember when I had his insight and raw wit. I think it depresses me more to think he would have thought me as trite. Very typical of me. Panicked over the idea that I won't measure up to other people.