2010 was a shitty year. There’s just no way around it. It wasn’t anything dramatic — well, except for that miserable Alzheimer’s diagnosis, which, come to think of it, was pretty dramatic. But just in general, it was a miserable year. I’m wanting better things for 2011, but so far…yeah, not so much. First two days of the year, and I’m kind of ready to give up on it already.

The one good thing–of both 2010 and 2011–is that I have rediscovered the joys of writing fiction. The stories I wrote this fall, largely spontaneous and pulled out of me at the speed of light (65,000 words of intricate plotlines and no character development whatsoever, woo-hoo) made my weeks, my months, my year. I know in a way it’s denial — I’m finding happiness in living in the world of my imagination because the world of my reality just sucks. But hey, that’s what imagination is good for. And it’s lovely to have it to fall back on in times like these.

If I don’t manage to make up with R in the next twelve hours, I will go away for a four day business trip still thinking that he is just a jerk. Usually, I can wrap my head around what I’ve contributed to a situation, but this time, not so much. Maybe sometime soon. Or maybe I’m right and he’s just a jerk.