A Couple of Reasons and Resolutions

A key scene in The Hobbit struck me--Gandalf is speaking to Bilbo, who is whining about leaving behind his books and his maps and his garden (and his hobbit-hole)--and Gandalf points out the window and says, "The world is not in your books or your maps.  It's out there."  Obviously, he's pointing out the window.

I keep saying that I want an adventure, at least to myself (and on occasion to others), but as often as I say that...I'm not entirely unlike our friend Mr. Baggins.  I'm overly fond of my books and I tend to be a homebody.  Probably because it's easier.  It's easier to do the less risky thing, which is to stay at home.

So Resolution the First: when given the opportunity, I will choose people over books.  Friends over film.  (Or better yet, film with friends.

Excuses--we all have them.  These days, I think I offer them to myself more often than I do anybody else.  For a while I've thought of them as good reasons for stopping myself from doing risky things, but I know that's a bit of a lie.  They're excuses.  They're avoidance.  And the biggest excuse I use in regard to lots of things is: "I'm a bit of a mess."

So Resolution the Second: any human creature is inevitably a bit of a mess.  But I'll try to sort myself out--my environment because I can be a bit of a slob and my actual self.

Since that second one will require more than a little work, I feel pretty good about only making these two goals this year.  We'll see how I do!

Music-Related Melancholia

Once upon a time, on Saturday, I attended Kurt Bestor's annual Christmas show with my little brother.  First things first: I loved it, and my little brother is officially the best.  Or was for at least a minute or two on Saturday. ;)  Second things second: these things always make me wistful.

I suppose I should specify: by 'these things,' I mean musical performances.  Some musical performances.  Mostly musical performances that involve a flute or a piano in pretty much any capacity.

It's not entirely untrue to say that I have a certain...overexaggerative....streak.  I am a queen of hyperbole.  And sometimes it's for comedy, but sometimes I actually mean it.  I honest-to-goodness mean whatever over-the-top thing I'm saying sometimes--not as often as I once did, but still.

This is where the wistfulness comes in, I suppose.

I took instrument lessons: piano, flute.  As I recall, I mostly behaved myself during my piano lessons but I often acted like a little terror in the course of my flute lessons.  I have since learned that karma's a very real thing.  A few years ago, I agreed to teach flute lessons to the younger sister of a high school friend--and darned if she wasn't as much a terror as I'd been back when!  Maybe more!

Anyhow.

Lessons.  I took them.  And I used to imagine, I used to dream, that one day I'd be good enough I'd be famous.  But here's the thing: I never stuck with any one thing long enough to excel enough.  My attention span wavered, and while it's true I'm still a perfectly adequate piano player and that I still know which end of a flute is which... none of my big dreams ever came true.

I remember, 15 or so years ago, going into the Capitol Theatre with my parents for the first touring play I ever saw there: The King and I, with Hayley Mills.  (For the record, Ms. Mills is nice and all, but I'm pretty sure I would've preferred anyone else be Anna.)  Anyhow, I remember looking for the first few minutes into the pit, and thinking: "Someday I'll do that.  Someday I'll be good enough to play in the pit."

But I didn't, and I won't, and sometimes that makes me a little bit sad.

Yet mixed in with that sadness is an appreciation of what they're doing: I've taken lessons, I know it's not easy.  And I love good performances that much more (and also loathe terrible performances to distraction) because of those lessons.  I'm thankful I had parents who let me have them, thankful for growing up in an atmosphere that frequently involved music in the background.

Still sometimes I can't help but wonder if I make--aloud or internally--claims to myself that will never be fulfilled, claims that might result in more bittersweet experiences at some point in the future.  It's not even that I think I'd go back and apply myself more.  I don't think I'd be a better flute student.  I still think that counting out pesky rhythms before playing them on the piano is quite frequently a shame.  (So maybe I wasn't the greatest of piano students.  I remember an exasperated teacher who lamented not that I had no rhythm, but that I seemed to make the rhythm I preferred...)

But nevertheless, I had dreams.  Without any follow-through.

And all of a sudden, my pattern of flunking at something like Nanowrimo begins to make a lot of sense to me: I do this.  I'm in a pattern.  I've been in a pattern for a long, long time.  A pattern where I think big and then go small, when I need to dare to believe that I'm just as overexaggeratedly amazing as I claim to be.

On My Struggles with Goal-Setting

A long, long time ago I listened to someone teach a class about goal-setting.  (It could've been Institute; it could've been church; it could've been school.  Honestly, I don't remember where I was.)  I'm rather sure, now that I think about it, that I've sat through more than one goal-setting lesson in my life--but that is neither here nor there.

What struck me on this particular occasion is that the teacher suggested that we need to analyze our goals a little more.  He/she suggested that our initial goals would be so large or broad as to seem grand but not entirely achievable, so we should break that initial goal down into smaller goals to accomplish to reach the broader purpose.

I thought it a brilliant idea.  Still do, really, except that it poses a problem when I can't figure out the big goal. Or the little goal.  Or any goals.

Or when my goal is Be Happy, well, I haven't quite figured out how to break that one down either. 

You Say You Want a Resolution?

I like the idea of New Year's resolutions. New year, new start, new beginnings, new ways...maybe even new you. And in theory, resolutions are great. They're wonderful at providing aims, at voicing accomplishments, at saying, "Hey, world, look here. This is what I'd dearly love to accomplish this year. And please try your best not to get in the way of my accomplishments, thank you very much."

Yes, indeed. The idea of resolutions is good.

But as is the case with almost everything in life--with the exception (in most instances) of how to put on one's pants--the idea and the practice are more than a little bit different.

My resolutions invariably become a laundry list of things I want to be better at and things I want to do better at. And all of a sudden, I find myself at some point in the middle of January wondering exactly what I like about myself. Perhaps that sounds a little extreme, but sometimes I make resolutions and realize I've done nothing but list what I feel are my failings in some strange, inverted way.

Last year I resolved to say yes to more stuff more often...and to be honest, I don't know if I've said no more in my life than I did in the past year. Some of it was necessary no-ing. But some of it...was just me kind of being a chicken.

It's that whole theory-and-practice quandary: yes, in theory, I'd love to be more outgoing. I'd love to be in the best shape of my life, to play the guitar, to travel outside the country, to write a novel, to actually list a publication. I'd love to be entirely reliable, to be always happy, to exercise all necessary follow-through to make all of these things I'd love to do and be come to life.

But it's hard. And yes, I suppose that's me whining a little bit. But it's nevertheless true. Change isn't as easy as putting on my pants. What's easy is gliding along comfortably in familiar patterns. I once said that I felt Anne-like, but these days, I'm afraid I go far too often without flying or thud.

So if I'm to make a resolution this year, I feel that the most honest one to make would be this: I resolve to actually make effort to change. And I permit failures. All sorts of failures.

Rows of Ducks

On this, an eve prior to a New Year, I have stopped to ponder my resolution-making capabilities. And I have reached a conclusion: like many members of the worldwide populace, I've quite the gift for knowing exactly what resolutions to make--and an equal or greater gift for breaking those resolutions. In short, I'm abominable at sticking to my goals. (Did I have some at this time last year? Most likely. Do I remember them. Erm, well, uh.... in a manner of speaking?)

Anyhow.

With each passing year, I find myself marveling at one particular quality I have--my utter inability to get all of my ducks lined up in a row. Not actual ducks, mind you, as many of them are mean little biters (not, ahem, that I'd know or anything)... Let's just say that if my metaphorical ducks were forced to form a chorus line, they would just kick each other in the heads with their little flippers and knock each other out.

I fully recognize that there needs to be a duckherd--duckherderess?--at work here (i.e. me), who leads and channels and helps to organize the ducks. I'm ridiculously hopeful and optimistic that 2011 just may be the year where my ducks line up neatly and learn a perfectly synchronized can-can.

The Future, Goals, Dreams...and Lostness, of a Sort

Tolkien has invaded my brain. Okay, that's not a fair thing to say. Circumstances have been such that a few key words he wrote have been rotating around my head, weaving their way in and out of any given actual situation in my life, and repeating themselves over and over while still somehow--miraculously--managing not to sound too much like a broken record: "All that is gold does not glister. Not all who wander are lost."

I suppose that they've been on their own special rotation because my life plans have, once again, changed. And these things always change based on my feelings that it either is or decidedly isn't time to do something. Also, in a way, I think I'm wandering right now. And I'm hoping to heaven that I'm not lost.

A long time ago, I made the discovery (what seemed--at that stage--far too late) that when I act based on my feelings, I tend to feel much better overall about everything I'm doing (or not doing) with my life. So when I recently felt a need to halt my progression toward more school, my inital thought was "Huh?" Closely following on its heels, surprising even myself a little bit, my second thought was "Ok, then."

That promptly sent me into a tailspin of a sorts, except I didn't spiral downward so much as spiral all over the place. Mostly because I realized that this frees up a few possibilities that I couldn't pursue if I gave up the next four or so years of my life. The most important of these possibilities, I decided, is that it frees up some time for me to the write the novel that's percolating in my head. The one that has come out, to a certain extent, in choppy notes. The type of notes that could become something interesting. If I let it.

And I also realized something else, as I recently told a friend: I tend to use school like a crutch. Yes, I tell people, look at me! I'm achieving! But I'm doing it because, after my own initial impetus, there are people telling me what to do. What I need to do. And they're telling me how to do it. Bossing me around, in a way. I work very well within a system. My grades are good. I achieve (at least) the minimum requirements.

But I want to develop my own projects. Be my own boss (in some things, anyway) for the next while. See what I can do when I have absolutely no impetus but my own goals and dreams. I have a feeling this ride will be bumpy. But fun.

A Book Review, and a Goal

I just finished reading The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance a few days ago, and I greatly enjoyed it. In reading feedback from others, I've found this memoir seems to be of the love it or hate it variety. Nobody who feels a need to discuss this book seems to be shrugging their shoulders and saying, "Meh. Didn't really care."

I laughed; I cringed; I groaned; I empathized.

Most of the camp who have hated the novel seem to hate Elna's portrayal of herself as Mormon, but as a Mormon who does not behave in the strictest sense of the stereotyped definition of our faith. (I honestly knew I would love the book when she dedicates the book, minus the swear words and a couple of racy scenes, to her parents.) She swears; she struggles with physical boundaries; she doesn't exclusively date men from her faith. More importantly, she questions: she's not always sure about how she fits into her faith and she's not always sure how to explain what she believes. Hell, she's not always sure what she does believe. That doesn't make her unfaithful; in his November CES fireside talk, President Uchtdorf defined LDS church members as a "question-asking people" because "inquiry leads to truth."

I enjoyed the book because it felt so utterly honest and it rang true to my experiences. (And mind you, I have yet to move outside Utah! But Salt Lake City has a liberal scene all its own; and as a graduate student in a liberal arts program, I often find myself purposefully avoiding most church settings except my Sunday meetings, because I believe the doctrines--but I don't think that the culture is true. In fact, the culture can be exceedingly difficult to swallow sometimes.)

That said, if swearing offends you (and it would offend you even more coming from a Mormon mouth) or if you can't handle a candid discussion of sexual boundaries (including a couple of racy scenes--that, to be honest, I didn't find terribly scandalous...but I'm an English graduate student, and after several years of studying literature, I probably have a more broad definition of "racy" than most), this book isn't for you.

Now, onto the goal part: after reading the book, I admire something she addresses in the book: an ability to say "yes" to many, many things. As she notes, there's a power to saying yes: you never know where--or what--it will get you. And I've decided that's my new goal--to say "yes" to more of the opportunities I'm presented. To stop rationalizing away opportunities. To live a little. (Or who knows? Maybe a lot.)

It's That Time Again!

I know that y'all dearly long for these bi-weekly posts that update you on the progress of my goals. Perhaps you laugh at my failure. Perhaps you applaud my success. Perhaps you do none of the above, and instead sit and quietly scheme up ways of disrupting my efforts. Whatever the case may be, here goes:

1. Um, well . . . again, what is regular? Or even semi-regular? And do I get points for always waking up at the same time (sans alarm, even) regardless of when I went to sleep?

2. Okay, so I've sort of reformed. I'll try to reform more. On the bright side, I now have plenty of space for yoga in my room. Behind closed doors. So I don't feel that I'm putting on a show for anyone. (So I like to exercise alone. So sue me.)

3. I picked up some mouthwash from the store the other day. I'm brushing. I'm flossing. And no, I still haven't called a dentist. Haven't either bothered to figure out which dentists are on my insurance plan.

4. Okay, so I have to say that I'm tremendously proud of myself. And I do mean tremendously proud of myself. Because if cleanliness is next to godliness, I've pretty much managed to transform my room into heaven. Sure, it took five and a half hours to accomplish. But it's so worth it. Particularly since I'll be needing to write a few large papers soon.

5. and 6. Should probably have been one goal with two corollaries. But anyway, I'm back on top of things. At least, as on top of schoolwork as graduate students ever get. I think there's some sort of diabolical scheme planned to make us all feel behind, even when we're no. But hey, when it comes right down to it, we're sort of asking for it.

7. I feel like I'm being a realistic soul. At least about these. I've never, on the whole, been a realistic soul. Where's the fun in that?

2009 Goals

And so another year and another semester have come. Tomorrow, I start my second semester of graduate school. Now I know that I can survive it; happily, I also know that any correlations between my classes and picnics in the park would involve drawing analogy between me and ants. You know what I mean.

Anyway, the start of a year and a semester means time to make goals. Time to type them up here and periodically report on them. Time to make good on the goals, too, since--as Schmetterling pointed out--I have a few more people to be accountable to this year. (Although let's be honest: most of you would probably be kind enough not to call me out on a blog post where I admit to lapsing. Most of you. There are a select few who would leap on that sort of opportunity. So not allowing them any such opportunities will be excellent motivation to fulfill my goals.)

Last year, I paired confessions with resolutions; unluckily for all of you, I'm not feeling particularly confessional at this moment. At least, not confessional in the same manner I felt then. If that makes sense. I have no clever way of presenting my goals this year. So read 'em and weep (or you know, read 'em and encourage me . . . that would probably be a better tactic):

1. Establish a semi-regular sleep schedule. I say "semi-regular," because I am a graduate student. That means I study a lot. I read a lot. I write a lot. And while I'm studying, reading, and writing a lot . . . I also twirl my hair a lot. (Just thought I'd thrown in a random factoid about me. It has nothing to do with the goal, but you know you're not surprised.) Anyway, my professors expect a lot of me and I expect a lot of myself; naturally, this sometimes leads to late nights. However, such late nights should not always be followed by mornings in which I sleep in until 10. Instead, I will use my morning time to . . .

2. Exercise for at least twenty minutes each weekday. Yes, yes. I know it's cliche. And I also know that I need to do it more often. Last semester, I kept telling myself that all of the exercise I needed was the hike I often took up 200 South to campus. But that just isn't so. Besides, I already know that yoga is my friend. And though I do a few poses in the morning and at night, I tend to keep it to the shortest time span possible.

3. Go to the dentist. You may have noticed (astutely) that this goal is a repeat. It's a goal I failed at last year. But I will not fail at visiting a dentist this year. Before my back tooth falls out. Ignoring a tooth problem does not, it would seem, make it go away. (Silly I even attempted this method with teeth problems. I've already proved its lack of efficacy with boy problems and homework problems, among others.)

4. Keep my room clean. Yes, yes. Technically, we're almost two weeks into the year and I've already failed at this goal (you should see my room right now), but I figure that I can repent and do better for the rest of the year. After all, it would really be a pity if I managed to injure myself because I tripped over something in my room. And let's be honest: although I don't know where all of the bruises I tend to accrue come from, I do know that some of them come from less than graceful tripping moments. Tripping, that is, over clothes. Or books. Or papers. Besides, this ties into my next goal which is . . .

5. Curb some of my procrastinating tendencies. My A #1 way of procrastinating anything important (papers, homework, life choices) is to clean my room. Because let's face it: 95% of the time, my room needs to be cleaned. And by "cleaned," I unfortunately do not mean simply "tidied, dusted, and vacuumed." I mean "picked up, organized, de-junked, and then tidied, dusted and vacuumed." If my room is clean, I will have one less way to procrastinate.

6. Complete all of my homework in a timely fashion. Yea, verily, I shall start on it early and actually complete more than one or two drafts of my papers before I hand them in. Because honestly, I don't have a job at the moment. Graduate school is currently my full-time job, and--at least as of last semester--it needs to be. So since I have nothing interfering with my graciously meeting deadlines but myself, I am reforming myself. Or trying to, anyway.

And last but not least, 7. Don't make any silly goals that I know I can't keep. That is why you see no goals about gloating. No attempts at making myself slightly less a smart aleck this year. (Because really--where would the fun be in that?) No promises to not be silly, not react to things people say to me. I'm working on my realism.

And you, dear readers, because you love me so (or because you love to make me react so) . . . I am going to give you bi-monthly updates of my progress. Look for another post two weeks from today.

Remember, if I'm doing poorly: your mocking is my motivation.

Why I Need to Write More

I ache.

Let me explain this particular form of ache: I would say it's more or less metaphysical, but that would be a lie. If not a lie, at least a half-truth. Because it is, to an extent, part of my genetic composition. I think it's hard-wired into my genetic composition to write. As I sit here thinking about what types of things I haven't been writing, I can feel a gnawing in the pit of my stomach.

And I'm not speaking of the writing of blogs here. I've been doing just fine with that recently. I've also been doing a rather smashing job of doing nothing in particular (with the exception of packing boxes and moving them) for far too long now.

For some particular reason, I must have decided that a brief period before I commenced my graduate degree and start stuffing my head full of composition theory and critical theory (again! come August!) would be entirely devoted to--wait for it--nothing in particular.

Don't get me wrong. There is some idling I've done that I've greatly appreciated and that has helped to relax me. I exercise no regrets about having watch 3/4 of the DVDs in my second season collection of Psych. (If you haven't watched this show, find an episode. Watch it. Report back. And if you didn't laugh at all in the course of watching the episode, then I'm afraid I'll have to temporarily disown you as a friend. But no worries, when I say "temporarily," I mean it. I'll disown you for thirty seconds or so. Not even long enough for you to realize except I just told you I would!)

But today, I stumbled upon the blog of a friend I tutored with and took many classes with. (He, too, was a Poetry Major. And not the aforementioned of the bad-boy looks) His blog included links to his published poetry. Discussed his writing techniques. He's heading to Purdue for his MFA in the fall. He's a genius.

He is also working at writing. I haven't been. And as I read, and then when I stumbled upon more writing of other people I know via his links, my stomach sank. And kept sinking. In fact, I'm pretty sure it has sunken completely out of my body, past the ground floor of this building, and now resides somewhere in the dirt.

Some days I wonder why I feel so blase.

Today I know why.

It's time to break out the notebooks again. (Literally and metaphorically. I have to unpack them before I can write in them.)

Success or Happiness?

As an undergraduate, I decided to get a Bachelor of Arts degree instead of a Bachelor of Science degree for practical reasons--science and math, while not impossible for me to grasp, require a lot more effort than humanities-based classes.

My dad, meanwhile, frequently lamented my choice of major. Who on earth would employ a girl with an English degree? (A creative writing degree, no less) What would I do with my life?

Anyway, a B.A. requires four semesters of a foreign language. Spanish seemed a logical choice--it seemed like a good chunk of the student population, not to mention the U.S. population--spoke it. And so I found myself in classes with a fellow creative writing student. Since we already knew each other, we always sat next to each other. We took notes for each other. And we got to be quite chummy.

He wasn't the sort of person who looked like an aspiring poet; he was the sort of person who looked like a personal trainer. He regularly went to the gym, and he ran or lifted weights to help him think his way through any given problem or poem.

He was the sort of person many people would expect to hear swearing like a sailor, but he'd quote Neal A. Maxwell. In addition, he looked menacing and intense. And that assessment was half right--he was very intense. And passionate. Once he believed in something or someone, it took a lot to sway him.

Like me, he didn't always think before he reacted. But he was always quick to apologize if he thought he'd offended. Unless he didn't like people. Then he sort of reveled in it when they took offense. But not to their faces, at least.

Anyway, many people mistook him as a stereotypical bad boy. It was an easy mistake to make if you only scratched his surface. In our fourth semester Spanish class, a shallow little soccer player took a shining to him. I spent quite a lot of time watching her (fruitlessly) attempt to flirt with him. You could tell she had a bad-boy complex.

He dodged it quite well by always including me in the conversation. Or by dropping any conversation with her and taking up one with me whenever I came in. (It was gratifying, really; we were good friends and it was nice to be able to talk a variety of philosophies and argue about the merits of different styles of poetry as well as discussing a variety of other things. It gave me faith that all men didn't entirely devote their attention to bimbos)

One day, however, I ended up being interjected into a conversation she had started with him, because she had decided to major in business. She had faith she could figure out a way of climbing the corporate ladder and making boatloads of money, and she thought it a good strategy. (When I wished her good luck in shattering the glass ceiling, she said "Huh?" And I chuckled.)

When she asked about our majors, we told her we were both majoring in poetry. She mentioned that it didn't seem like a terribly lucrative major. And both of us had the same response--we would much rather be poor and happy, we told her, than be insanely rich and miserable.

I told her the Beatles had pegged it--money can't buy you love. It also can't buy you happiness. Or satisfaction. Or good friendships.

From that point to the end of semester, she spent the beginning of every class attempting to convince us to go into majors that would pay us more. Until at one point, my friend told her, "I think the only reason I would ever climb the corporate ladder is so I can jump off it and kill myself."

I remembered that this morning when one of my co-workers asked if I was returning to school. "In a sense," I told him. "I'm going back to get my master's."

"In business administration?"

"No, in English."

"MBA's get paid quite a lot. You could buy a number of things with an MBA."

"Except contentment."

It's interesting to note how many people here in the office think of their jobs only in terms of salary. They don't seem to think it matters whether they love or loathe their positions; as long as it pays them enough, they believe they will be happy. Misery for eight hours a day, they seem to think, is worth the price of being able to maintain their standard of living.

And sometimes I wonder--if they ever quit and got jobs that caused happiness for eight hours a day and didn't help their standard of living, would they have a worse time of it? Or a better one?

Confessions and Their Matching Resolutions

Confession #1: When I was thirteen, I wanted to see Titanic oh-so-badly. And why, pray tell, did I want to see this movie? Not because every girl in junior high ranted and raved about it. Not because I had a thing for Leonardo DiCaprio. I wanted to see it because I felt tingles every time I watched the music video for "My Heart Will Go On." I thought Celine Dion was speaking to my soul and the movie would too. Good thing my musical taste improved with age.

Resolution #1: Do not voluntarily listen to any Celine Dion music. Ever. Hey, I figure I should give myself at least one resolution that would be a cinch to keep.

Confession #2: Every year since I can remember, I've made a goal related to writing or publishing. Sometimes both. I've never met these goals because I'm a big fat scaredy-cat. I fret about things being bad; silly soul that I am, I tend to forget bad things can always be re-worked.

Resolution #2: Follow through with writing/publish resolutions. And stop being such a ninny.

Confession #3: Last year, I thought hard about giving up chocolate and I even tried it for a while (giving it up, that is--not trying eat it), because if I eat too much of it, it causes me massive amounts of head pain. I failed miserably at the giving it up idea. In fact, I may have induced at least one headache because I'd repressed the chocolate urge for so long I couldn't help but binge. I know. I have no will power.

Resolution #3: Moderation in all things is a true principle. At least, I'm pretty sure it is. So I resolve to eat less chocolate this year than I did last year. Because I know what will happen if I resolve not to eat it at all. Bad, bad things (*shudder*).

Confession #4: I don't remember the last time I saw the dentist. That's saying something, especially since I have a rather good memory. I can remember all sorts of things from my freshman year of college, but I can't remember the last time I saw the dentist. This could be a) because it's been a while or b) because I hate dentists and am purposefully suppressing. I can tell you this much: in a couple of weeks, I'll have been employed in my current position for one year. I've not seen a dentist since I started work here. In fact, I'm pretty sure the last time I saw a dentist, I was a junior in college. Somewhere in there. That makes it 2 or 3 years.

Resolution #4: I will go to a dentist this year while I still have insurance. Some time soon, since one of my teeth has been killing me. (Not literally, of course, I don't mean that it's got a gun and a vendetta. It just hurts. A lot)

Confession #5: I update my blog more often than I e-mail my brother on a mission. Something about writing to a general audience, getting feedback, feeling online-ishly published, getting fun comments from people I've never met in person (but most of whom I'd like to meet in person someday) . . .

Resolution #5: I will send my brother e-mails. By copying and pasting some of the more pertinent blog entries. And modifiying the tenses to make it more personal.

Confession #6: My room gets so messy that I have dreams about my roommate dying of clutter when coming in to find a book or DVD.

Resolution #6: I will keep my room tidier. Or at least clear a path to the bookshelves.

Confession #7: There is exactly one person at work that I can't seem to get along with. Ever. Possibly because I took her job and do it better than her. Also possibly because she has all of the personality all of a brick wall. Or perhaps because people like me and are rather vocal about it.

Resolution #7: Stop gloating. And stop letting others gloat on my behalf.

Seven seems like a good number. A lucky one, even. So and seven confessions just seems like a good number.

Also, I don't want to tell you too much :)