It's finally January, and I gladly embrace the advent of the thick windscreen frost. This is only the second time it's come in the past 30 days. How tragic and meaningless this lower-temperate foothill/flatland region is to me.
Well, not tragic. That's a stupid thing to say. I have a life sans obstacles. My only real obstacle is myself. And though the cheery bulbs and tinsel strings of Christmastime are casually drifting away, and the trees, lights, and tacky inflatable snowmen are being taken down, I feel no justifiable despair. My longing for dynamism outweighs all my television-bred sentimentality, even when coming into this so-called "new year." I saw no parades and participated in no countdown. I just played at step aerobics to unintelligent dance music with other house-dwelling chunks of skin-wrapped goo. At the time, and even now, I still wonder: Is Dance Dance Revolution really all that good for you?
But despite the wars, rumors of wars, and warring movie sequels that will surely come about in 2007, my top desire remains. I must go to Zhongguo. I want to go now, but I can't. Why must I need money? Why can't I become a cloud of energy, floating where I wish? Or why can't lightning strike me and just make me disappear, like that Powder guy?
And now that I've reminded myself of Powder, the spirit of loathing has sprung forth, and I must quit writing for a time.
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