I miss writing. I truly do. Writing for the new job can be grueling and, not to mention, stressful. My boss commends my English. I, on the other hand, am not too sure she's thinking straight. Or reading straight. I miss writing for myself. Jotting down my every whim and fancy, no thought required. I also miss writing essays, and the worst part could be that I don't find it distressing that I do. Geek maybe?

Whenever a year is coming to a close, we tend to involuntarily do a mental list of resolutions or changes we want with the new year. Or at least I know I do. All I really want for this year is to be assured I've made the right choice for both my career and my life. But after stumbling through the month of January, I'm left with nothing more than tousled hair and an obliterated heart.

No passion no life.

The disease is truly human ambition, human emotion. The disease is also the truancy of contentment, the relentless regrets.

No, maybe the disease is just my greed and my ill-considered choices.

What a way to usher into 2011. What happened to all the customary good cheer and refreshing optimism? Well, quite obviously not for this new year, or just not for me. If I were a stranger reading this, I would just drown in the abyss of melancholy that is this entry and tire before I reach the end.

Which I have.