GO TO HELL, 2015.

It's funny how the first of the year can bring such a strong feeling of possibility. Even writing down the same unsuccessful resolutions you've written down for the past 5 years somehow sidesteps the depression it should evoke and instead is wrapped in optimism as you say out loud, "This is the year."

And maybe if I treated every day like I do January 1st (or if every day treated me like it was January 1st - not literally because that would mean hours of cooking Japanese food), I'd have better luck. I'm not a risk-taker. I'd like to be because it's hard to get much done without at least tiptoeing out of your comfort zone, but I hate to fail and there's usually a possibility of failure when trying new things . . . but this year . . . this is the year that I wake up everyday and think about what I could do and try to make my life fulfilled.

. . . but then yesterday my upstairs neighbor's pipes burst and flooded my kitchen in a very traumatic event and other disappointing news was delivered and I've cried at my desk more than 3 times and and and and now I feel like 2015 is doomed. So far, this year is NOT coming up Milhouse.