Last post was January 8th of last year, with a promise that I was REALLY going to write more? Excellent. High-five. Ugh. (Pause for brief moment of self-flagellation.)
Ah, well, can’t do anything about it now except actually try again. So I turn fifty years old in two months and two days. I’m not sure how I feel about it, or truly if I actually feel anything at all except that I’m always pleased with the dining options that come with another birthday. An entire weekend of wings, cake, and beer? Sure, I’ll march a mile closer to oblivion! It’s not like there’s a choice anyway, and you might as well take the good stuff when it’s offered, amirite?
My original idea was something along the lines of, well, alright, I’m going to make up for my literary slack by writing a new post EVERY SINGLE DAY until the big five-oh! I applaud my own bout of late-night ambition, but let’s get a little bit real here: that is precisely the sort of declaration that allows this little corner of the web to collect digital dust for another year-plus. Instead, I’ll make myself a bit more comfortable; attainable goals are actually a good thing to have, friends. I’m thinking five-out-of-seven days per week until 50 (and beyond? we shall see) is reasonably possible.
My escape hatch from this tidal wave of insane ambition is this: the posts can range anywhere from lengthy, heartfelt essays to three sentences about how my ankles hurt because it’s raining and I’m aging. Like getting older itself, it’ll truly be a mixed bag…
…but hopefully also mostly-good. After all, it all beats the alternative.
Southeast of Disorder 