A forest in a bottle in a spaceship in a maze.

Twenty Twelve ended with fat fingers and more than one occassion of time travel, and if I at all cared about anything anymore I might be embarrassed by both. Lucky for me, I don't and I'm not. Twenty Thirteen has been fine I guess. I mean, we're only eight days in so it's hard to tell, but I have another appointment with oncology this week and I have some reason to be optimistic. Winston seems to be a bit more sprightly so that's better than not. I've had dreams of leaking roofs but no actual leaking roofs. My hair is still crazy short. You know, stuff.

I'm hoping that once we get past Inauguration weekend things will start getting back to normal. I didn't think I missed going to hockey games but now that my season tickets have finally been mailed out I'm finding myself pretty chuffed. I haven't picked up a single book since December 12, which is a stupid long time for me, but Gatsby calls. I started writing A Thing, and I think it'll be pretty good if I can ever muster enough motivation to work on it some more. This medication makes me so flipping exhausted it's a wonder I can even get out of bed in the morning so it's not like there aren't challenges, but like I said, optimism.

Not too long ago I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, Nothing lasts, and if you force it to it turns sour and rots. At least that's what the milk carton says anyway. That must have been some dream.