Environmentalists (environMENTALISTS) say that if you burn plastic it will release toxic gases that may make you very sick. This is what I say to them: do not nay say me in my pursuits of happiness. And a happy new year to you too.

I'm currently watching Taxi Driver. The geeks will have gotten that already by my absurdly long post title. Although I have even studied the direction of this movie at college, tonight is the first time I've seen it. Wow. It's like American psycho crossed with Tellytubbies crossed with Natural Born Killers. No, it's not like that at all. It's more like setting shoe polish on fire and inhaling the delicious scent. No, it's not like that - that's just a scene I saw a few moments ago. The soundtrack is something like the kind of thing you'd hear on that strange eighties show about private eyes Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd - Moonlighting - remember that? That was a weird show. I can't really remember anything about it, although I do remember eating sausages and chips one night while watching it. That was the basic sustenance of my childhood. And they weren't even cooked. That's how neglected I was. And my lunch at school every day was usually nothing more than crumpled up pages from women's magazines that mother robbed from the doctor's surgery waiting room. I can still taste the ink.

Still, it wasn't all bad; you could use the pages to build big collages of happy scenes between mummies and daddies that didn't hit each other and throw glass bottles.

I noted sadly with Zoomy tonight that despite my best efforts I never once got even close to tipsy this holiday season. I have lost my taste for alcohol! I was never a big drinker, but from time to time there is nothing I like more than an evening of multiple beers or wines and perhaps a lot of singing. Although there was jollity I don't believe I ever finished more than one drink. It is an oddity. It just didn't taste nice to me. I wonder if there might be a therapy group to help me overcome this drinking problem.

Tomorrow is my last day of freedom before returning to the chains of my office. I mean truly, my job could be so much worse, so much tremedously more worse, or worser as I liked to say in my illiterate days, but still, I have no heart in it and that makes it difficult. I am an ARTISTE, you know? I am so WASTED in my field. The previous sentence could be the dialogue of a knacker drinking farmer, couldn't it? Anyway, all my talent (whatever talent that may be [undiscovered as it is]) is being strangled, slowly, with a 6 inch square of thin plastic (cut from a sandwich bag), which, when burned, makes me feel happy.

I need help. Maybe 2006 is the year to seek it.

neuro-praxis -- This Is Her Show And This Is Her Website