I have fallen into my own trap.

Having moved home, to a situation that does not exactly thrill me, to a job that does not thrill me, and to various friendships that by and large do not thrill me (in the way they're conducted, I hasten to add), I have Settled. My job gives me just enough money to buy CDs, I pay minimal rent, and my bills don't come due till April.

And yet, I am not satisfied. I need a roommate or someone in my life that will piss me off and act as a goad so that I give up on my Whitebread American Middle Class Life and get a real life, the kind that I really want.

And yet, I've settled for less than what I want. I have no impetus to move, I apply for jobs that it's unrealistic to assume I will get, and I'm not even looking for a house because, hey, I might go back to England Real Soon Now. All because I can buy books and CDs; fuck financial security, and fuck being able to pay my debts and move to England or Iceland - I can live Right Now and be okay with that.

I know too many people doing this to think that it will turn out well. I can't even contemplate taking a trip (Destination: Undisclosed, so believe I'm coming to your town) without thinking that it will have to happen in August or later so that I have enough time between then and now to not think about the likelihood of my life at that point. It's always easy to say "Oh, I'll do that later," and then find out that thirty years have gone past.

So, underneath all this whining lurks a grain of truth: I have Settled for Less Than I Want, and I have done so because it is Easy.

As a result, and as a sort of belated continuing ot the New Years tradition, I present my Resolutions to Get A Life in 2004.

Return to England, at least for a visit. Visit Ireland while there, because, well, I've never been.

Visit Canada. Meet melpamene.

Visit Wisconsin. Meet jkivela.

Move out. Get an interesting flat or one bedroom somewhere in town. Be prepared to compromise on relative safety for cheap and interesting.

Get published five times for non-fiction and at least twice for fiction. Fan fic does not count, and is above and beyond, except for possibly the extremely-epic Breathe Out. By published I mean a) paid some amount and/or b) in a magazine, journal, or other format with Seattle-city circulation or greater. Turning my dissertation into a book, even though it will meet neither criteria, counts as publishing.

Pay off my VISA and my mother.

Lose twenty pounds and get my bike repaired so I can cycle regularly. I don't leave the house.

Get my driver's licence and a car. Even if I don't use it much.

Live close enough to work to bus. Because I write on the bus.

Get my next tattoo and pierce my ears again.

Be there for the birth of my grandniece or grandnephew. Write about it.

Get a real job. Do not let it control my life. Remember that I am not a slave to a paycheck and if I hate a job, I can quit. Unless it is the job of my dreams, assume that it is merely a stepping stone on a way to a better place.

Look into Masters and Doctorates in Journalism and/or writing, or anthropology of conflict.

Keep in touch with my referees.

Make sure that this is the only list that takes over my life.

Those are my criteria for having a life. I'll keep yuu posted as to how it goes. And at the end of the year, I'll do a wrap up.

Bring me that horizon,

Channon