Ken and I spent NYE with friends before we attended a schwanky to-do complete with passed gourmet finger food, a coat room, and dancing. We played Rock Band at a friend's house, where I discovered I'm not too bad at singing (!) but I suck on drums. At the soiree, I drank and danced while Ken plied me with said drinks, watched me dance, and gambled fake money at some gaming tables. It was a good time, but I'm tired, my legs and feet hurt, and I'm a little hoarse.
Today I took down the Christmas tree. We're going into town to watch Illinois play in the Rose Bowl, an then I'd like to come back and write the short story that's been eluding me. I have a deadline that is creeping up ever-so-quickly, and my performance anxiety is starting to kick into high gear.
My goals for the year are to write more and read more. Specifically, I'd like to finish two novels and five short stories this year while reading twenty books. This, of course, while losing ten pounds. Sometimes I feel like I'm pulled in a dozen different directions, and I'm not even a parent.