The holidays were full of alcohol and I drank a lot of it.

I nearly died in Brantford, several times I’m sure.

I have ended 2009 on a ludicrously unhealthy note. Actually, just a ludicrous note. Fun times were to be had, but the fun times kicked my ass.

Hence, my desire to be confined in my apartment and read modest Victorian literature until I fall asleep on my couch at 10 o’clock.

The truth is, I’m kind of jealous of Jane Eyre. Her and her simple and complacent, bonnet filled life in a convent with a husband she has never had sex with (I’m on page 277 of the total 420 and they still haven’t boned. NOTHING interesting happens in this book). But I think I might be better off leading such a life:

Jane Eyre never wakes up in a cold sweat frantically wondering that the fuck happened last night, no one ever texts her alluding to some pent up unexplained anger resulting from something obscene and offensive she did when she was super drunk, and I’m pretty certain she never has to worry about vommiting in dishwashers.

Life is just so swell for those God fearing women of 19th century literature.
In reality of course, life is absurd and embarrassing. It is messy. I don't really believe in reservations, and I don't want to apologize for that.