I woke up this morning (well, this afternoon, actually) and felt totally complacent. I was hung-over, though I had slept it off as far as possible, but I felt good. I mean I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about getting completely sauced the night before. I didn’t feel bad about wasting my time watching stupid movies, playing stupid games, gorging myself on food and wine the whole night. I felt no remorse for not having written a single word, for poisoning myself with alcohol, for dithering away yet another night as if the end wasn’t nigh. I was utterly… complacent. I knew it was alright. Good feeling, that. Odd, too.
I’ve decided to take a break from blogging (my spell-checker just asked me if I really wanted to type flogging, which brings self-flagellation to mind, which makes me think of Freudian slips, if you get my drift), until the next year has popped up it’s ugly little noggin, so here’s wishing all and sundry a happy Christmas and a merry New Year.