maybe i'm being defeatist but

I think I begin to see why stuff in the New Yorker is so depressing. It's mostly by the young, "up and coming" writers of today, right? People like me. 

Apparently we're all depressed. I know I am, and telling a happy story requires so much more effort when you've forgotten just what happiness feels like. There's no hope, is there? We don't see a brighter or better future. Everything's bleak and awful.

I don't see a victory. No happy ending. We won't win.

So I can't write the novel I've been meaning to, or the poem, or the story. It'll just be another of those depressing New Yorker type pieces. I refuse to perpetuate misery.

what have i been up to?

seems impossible to me that it's been a month already, but it has. odd.

i keep hoping to have experiences about which to write, but nothing much happens to me, you know? i work and i complain about work and i work more and i complain more and then i sing a bit and it's better for a bit. until i go back to work.

we had thanksgiving and i worked for all of it. came home to the ruins of a feast and relatives lazing in chairs too stiff for supination. cried in the bathroom with rage for missing the only family holiday that is happening this year.

we had christmas the next day and i shopped all day and decorated all afternoon and wrapped presents including all the ones i bought myself because no one else got me anything. that's okay, really. i'm 24. mum is paying for a new jacket that i helped her order. surprises on christmas are overrated.

i baked cookies all day for a reception, then sang in a concert tonight with magnify and the dude quartet. i was pretty proud of it, but silvie just wanted to go home and mom was unimpressed/less than effusive with praise. i had fun, so that's what matters, isn't it? gonna say yes.

so yeah. not much happening, but lots happening, but it's not too much after all.