Last week, I read an article from the Guardian that said writing is in the top-ten list of occupations associated with clinical depression.
Wow. How tantalizingly newsworthy.
Yesterday, I wrote a letter to myself in the future. I'm supposed to read it next year, when I am ME in 2011. In it, I scold myself for being such a disappointment. This is my version of New Year's resolutions. I call it New Year's admonishments.
I wouldn't be good at resolutions anyway, because the only ones I can think of involve starting bad habits. More of them.
How, exactly, do you smoke crack, anyway?
I'd probably suck at being a crackhead, anyway, but at least it would give me something to express my disappointment over for 2012. I'm very sensitive toward things that smell unpleasant.
You know what else I don't get? I don't get how people can sell books they haven't written yet. I have no doubt I would fail at that. Even thinking about it is making the muscles in the back of my neck tight.
How could I possibly not suck if I did that?
I don't know. Maybe I should try, just so I could add to next year's list of disappointments, too. That, and the whole crack-smoking thing.
Can't wait to open that letter next year.
