Doing what you love...

I have to say I took to being back on the alcohol like a drowning woman gasping for air. Two massive weekends in a row and another one coming up. May need to do another six weeks off to recover from this month. But this is not about alcohol.

This is about people doing things they love.

Specifically music. I got to see my friend, who's been telling me about his music for two years, play last Friday night for the first time and it was amazing. There is just something magical in music and gigs, words and melodies. Something about the passion and dedication it takes to create something truly original. It's all yours, wouldn't have existed without you. And Dan is dedicated and talented. Plus, he's stopped me going back to retail more than once. That's friendship right there.

His passion for music saved me more than once when I was struggling to do everything; work full time, intern and write. He knew what he wanted and reminded me to keep fighting for what I did. I like being surrounded by people who are doing what they want from life. They're always so happy to be around; positive and sure of themselves. When I wasn't doing what I wanted, they were an inspiration. And it doesn't have to be something arts related, I'm lucky to be surrounded by so many; musicians, scientist, O.T., radiographer, midwife, writers, poets, businesswomen, teachers, media, retail... the list goes on. Although to anyone with no idea what you're doing, I love you guys too. I was one of you for the longest time. Try to find people who are happy in what they're doing. It is both wonderful and depressing. It helps while it hurts.

But! The music! Danny C and the Blond O Sonic Rape Alarms! Dave, Declan, Ste and Tom! They were brilliant. You'd never know the band had only been practicing together for four weeks before they got on stage.

Someone told me recently that they know I was a good writer (having never read anything I'd written) because when I talked about it I have a cocky but humble attitude. And that is exactly how I would describe Dan. When he talks about music, his passion for other peoples and for his own, you know he's going to be  good. You can hear it in the way he expresses himself, in that humble but cocky way he speaks. Friday night didn't live up to my expectations, it exceeded them in every way. He writes all the lyrics and music. He sings and plays guitar. And what a gorgeous guitar it is; a Gretsch electromatic. They played all original songs except a QOTSA cover.

And as Dan said "that's enough of the Karaoke."

Brilliant gigs, great music and definitely one to look forward to in the future! I tried uploading a video of the gig and failed miserably. So have a cover he did for the marriage referendum here.

(Not set up much on social media yet but you can follow him on twitter here @WikkaDan )

My glass is empty: Week five and six

I blended the last two weeks because I had nothing to say in week five. I know shocking; me with no words. I was just enjoying being sober and never hungover and having a bit of extra cash while quietly counting down to the end. 

And now, I'm done...six weeks, not a drop of alcohol. Not too shabby. 

My first drink

This was a weird few weeks. It was not even slightly what I expected. I didn't think I would spend it trying to figure out why I drink. I just thought it would be a slightly challenging thing to do, six weeks without alcohol. A bit like not talking to a good friend when they go travelling. Life continues but you feel the absence of them, that lonely space in your life they used to own. A space they fit back into so easily when they return, and trust me, it was easy. Friday night, exactly six weeks after I'd last gotten drunk, I was back in the whiskey bar drinking wine. Ah wine, my dear friend. It's good to see you again. 

When I decided to put this online, it was for accountability. I figured I needed people knowing so I wouldn't start again. And it worked because I would never have made it past week two. I mean I only started enjoyed it around week four. I definitely didn't think I would be putting so much of myself out there, little chunks of my thought process online for people to read and judge and joke about. It's been weirdly rewarding and wonderful (thanks to everyone for the support). Even my close friends have said it was like a chance to look in my brain and figure me out a bit more, understand the things I do. I'm not what you would call the most talkative when it comes to feelings and such. Someone recently referred to me as emotionally removed...harsh right?! But I know what they were trying to say. I am not the person to discuss the bad stuff, the really important stuff. That all stays inside and I use it to write the good stuff. You want to know how I deal with things, feel about things, how I think think; read my writing. Apparently there I'm an open book....hahaha.  

My first night out in pictures...we went out for a quiet drink, got home at six in the morning! It involved doing a poetry reading at Flying South (I may put my attempts at poetry up, probably not...) the whiskey bar, a nightclub, two Canadians, Eddie Rockets at five in the morning and up at nine for Foo Fighters. Worth the wait! One of the best drunk nights I've had in a long time. Still drinking felt weird, and I was a little drunk after two glasses...

    

If you know me well, you know I have to ask why about everything. It used to drive my old manager insane. 

"So this is the how we do the figures."

"But why do we do them that way? Is there a reason?"

"No, that's just how they're done."

"But why? There must be a reason for it." 

*Death stare* "I'll find out."

                                                                                                  

Why something is done a certain way, why you're supposed to do it, what the point is, the reasons behind it; I need to know, need to figure it out. I want to do things that mean something; being with a group of friends I've known forever, listening to a band whose music makes me feel something, working a job I care about. Life is so short, and sometimes so fucking cruel, that I have to know my actions and words meant something; added up to something worthwhile. I'm always, always searching for the bigger meaning, the bigger worth of my life. Which can be exhausting and frustrating but also crazy rewarding. And that's what happened with this; I was never going to just give up alcohol. I was going to have to figure out why and how and who and what and question and question until my brain melted out of my ear and I had figured nothing out. But at least I'm questioning, looking, investigating and always thinking. I need more and sometimes alcohol gives me that opportunity because it takes away the fear and sometimes it means I lose out because it dulls or skewers what I know. 

In conclusion, I've learned nothing and I've learned something. My brain is a hard place to live. 

I've no idea if I've a healthy relationship with alcohol. I think I have an Irish one and an interesting one and a complicated one. 

And that's gonna have to do for now. 

(The reason I'm doing this can be found here. Week one is here. Week two & three are here, Week four is here.)

My glass is empty: Week four

Holy crap, I've made it to week four. I don't want to claim that its miraculous, but lets be honest, it's a little bit impressive. I mean I do spent a large amount of my time in bars, surrounded by alcohol and drinking people. I never realised how much of my social life is based in pubs and other alcohol related events. I have no shame saying (well, maybe a little) that I miss it; the end of the week first sip, the going a bit mad tonight drink, the let's meet up for chats wine.

There was an actual miracle this week; I actually enjoyed not drinking!

Yes, I know. I have reached sainthood. The pope will be ringing anytime now to condemn me to Hell...but that will be for all the other things I regularly do. Anyway, two nights out, a trip to the whiskey bar and a house party, and both were brilliant without a drop of alcohol. The best part was on Saturday and Sunday I was up early, not hungover, and got to spent my days doing things (writing group, Pitch Perfect 2, finishing a bunch of work and seeing friends). It felt like I did something over the weekend instead of just drinking and recovering.

I've been discussing alcohol with people. I now do that a lot while I try to figure out why it's been such a big thing for me to give it up for six weeks. The support I've received for giving up has been amazing by the way; loads of people have gotten in contact or mentioned it to me which has been so freaking cool. I just wonder why it's considered such a big deal (including by me), why it is so hard. Because it has been hard, weird, a struggle and an adjustment. Not drinking is odd. I'm starting to think it's a big part of my identity as an Irish person. I know I don't need to go into any facts or figures for us all to know that drinking is a massive part of Irish culture.

←Younger me drinking all the beer

I've been drinking consistently since I was seventeen (gave it up for six months in second year of college) but ignoring that, I've been drinking for basically ten years straight. We won't mention earlier attempts (sorry Mam!). Ten years of most weekends, a lot of weekdays, house parties, nights out, nights in...all revolving around alcohol. So if it takes 66 days to form a habit, I think I'm pretty set in my ways. Something like 90% of my facebook pictures (I made that up) are me drinking or on nights out. This is what I do. I socialise with drinks. This is probably what we all do. Sitting in to watch a movie, have  a few beers. Heading out, have more than a few beers. Dinner, have a drink. Sometimes even the cinema equals more alcohol. Holy hell Ireland, we really do know how to drink.

I also drink a lot of tea in case you're wondering→

I just don't know how I didn't notice this before, didn't really think about it. And let's be honest I'll probably go back to normal when the six weeks is done. Ten years of habit ain't gonna be broken in six weeks. But a little part of me doesn't want to go back. I'm enjoying it. Weird, I know. It's nice to remember what I did on a night out, to wake up and not be hungover, to never wonder if I need to be embarrassed, or have that sinking feeling of dread, the shit-I-fucked-up moment. But here's the problem, part of me adores being out of control. Adores the feeling of letting it all out and then blaming the alcohol, dancing and drinking and kissing inappropriate men and being a big mess and just having that sort of uninhibited fun. It's a different level, something you just can't reach when you're sober. Sober Fran and Drunk Fran are currently not speaking, one wants to stay and the other wants to come back. I'm not sure which one I want to be. Because I think it's like I said in my first post; it all starts off healthy and balanced, but you always slip back into the mess. Mostly, because It Is Fun, So Freaking Fun.

So, going into week five and I have no idea if I'm going to go back to drinking or if I'm going to try stay sober at the end of all this. I miss drinking. But also I don't. The weirdness is over too, it would be easy now to stay off it. Everyone knows.

All I know is I feel good, like really good. Better than if I'd been drinking for the last few weeks.

(The reason I'm doing this can be found here. Week one is here. Week two & three are here.)

My glass is empty: Week two & three

Apologies for missing my update in week two. My laptop decided to quit and I got to pay a whole bunch of money to get it fixed. This is what it looked like before I cracked the screen trying to push the loose connection back in. Then it became a creeping line of black blood which eventually engulfed the whole screen. Not at all scary when you've forgotten the last time you backed up your work*

*Reminder to self: back up your shit. 

But brief outline for week two: I didn't drink. 

I did try non-alcoholic beer. I was on a night out and was feeling weird and exposed with my non-drinking. It's odd how much I rely on alcohol to unwind, to make me feel just that little bit more comfortable even with people I know well and places I go a lot. Being sober is different in a place where you're usually drunk. You are so much more aware; of yourself, of others, of the music and the crowd. It's like a crutch you don't need but keep using out of habit. Once you realise you don't need it, you're fine. And yes, I am saying I'm like Watson. (Sherlock nerds will get that. Anyone who doesn't, why aren't you watching Sherlock? It's amazing.) 

I started off well with some tea. But when we got out I thought a fake beer was better than no beer. I felt a bit like this was cheating, but I'm making the rules right? The sugar hangover I had the next day confirmed it I was in fact a big fat cheater pants. You know there is 18 grams of sugar in one bottle of fake beer. I had two. 36 grams of sugar. I cannot confirm or deny which is worse; an actual hangover or a sugar one. They are both gross. Headachy and tired and crappy. So at dinner on Sunday, of course, I had another two. Just for research purposes. Plus I was missing drinking. There, I admit it. It's weird how much it comes up in my life, how left out I suddenly feel. 

Starting my night with a cup of tea. Responsible.

 Moved on to the alcohol free beer and the tiny wolf I called Murphy.

So I survived week two.  Week three was better-ish. I went to a gig of a friends band, Here To Help You Out, and they were amazing. They should play in The Bronze. That's how good they are. Also we need to set that up. Come on Buffy fans, you know I'm right. Go listen to their free EP. I'll wait...amazing right?! Anyway, I spent saturday wandering around town with the bestie doing random things like eating, shopping, looking and glancing. Yes, sounds boring but it was actually great. Especially the glancing. You can steal so much with a glance. Also bought a new notebook for the next story. It's so exciting when it is just a few crumpled ideas in your head forcing their way together into something coherent and alive.

I came to the conclusion throughout week three that I live a less exciting life than I thought. Apparently all I do is work and drink in the whiskey bar. Ah the lies we tell ourselves! I was sure I was social and outgoing and living some exciting adventures. Turns out, nope. I write, I edit, I intern, I drink a few drinks and I swim. I don't really DO anything. It's a nice existence. I don't deny it but I'm 27 not 87.

What do ppl with lives do?! Could someone let me know?! 

I'm a writer, or attempting to be one, so I spent a large portion of my time living in an imaginary world... it's nice there mostly...but it means I don't do much in the real world. When I look up from my laptop and see there's an actual world out there, I get very hyper. If you meet me after a long writing/editing session, I am at my most excitable and charming. Seriously, hang out with me then. I'm the best. Put alcohol into the mix, I'm charming and lovely. And believe me, I'll continue to tell you that fact. All evening.

But anyway, it turns out all I do is work. I mean, why wouldn't I? I've have this amazing opportunity to do what I actually want to do. Instead of working jobs I don't want but that pay me, I'm doing something I adore but has yet to, you know, make me any money. I remain hopeful. When you're given a chance like this, you don't waste it. You grab the damn thing in both hands and you fight until you get what you want. So, everything else has taken a sidebar; social life, men, adventures in the real world and general putting myself out there. Me a workaholic?! Who knew? Pretty sure my friends and family would have confirmed this sad realisation years ago. I need to invest in my social life, if not for my mental health than for my writing. I mean, drinking does not guarantee that you're interesting but if I run out of life experiences I won't have anything worthwhile to write. 

I think I might be boring. Some suggestions to cure this malady would great.

Alcohol has become a way to chill out, to unwind, but it is also a place to hide. Drink in the same bar with the same people and don't ever vary that routine. Because it's easy. And that is what was disappointing with the non-alcoholic beer, because that night, I went to the same bar followed by the same rock bar. Nothing is changing. Even without alcohol. Apparently, it's hard to take risks and throw yourself into life when you want to work as much as I do. Or maybe I'm making excuses, maybe I'm hiding. 

Because I went out into the world. I remembered how fucking awesome life is. And now, I don't want to lose that knowledge. I don't want to take risks, or do anything really, in case I break what I fixed. In case, I end up dark and twisty again. Even if some of my best writing comes from that place. But that's not good. One of my friends told me I keep saying I'm living vicariously through her. I totally am. And through my characters, other ppl stories, their words, songs and adventures. I sit, I observe, I enjoy. But I don't do. My work is quiet and done alone. It's cut me off from ppl, adventures, things, stuff, feelings. And for someone preaching about a big life, about taking risks and doing things; I'm sure as hell not delivering on the advice I'm doling out. 

I'm comfortable, complacent, happy. 

It's such a dangerous thing, happiness. You'll do anything to keep it. Sometimes that means doing nothing. But I only earned it by accepting the possibilities, being daring, doing things. Quitting my job, leaving my apartment, travelling and having faith in my writing. 

So, I'm ending this post with a nod to dark, twisty but risk taking Fran. 

I'm going to find a few new ventures, do some stupid things, create some stories, break a few hearts and figure out how to have a big life when you're not falling.  And I'll  do it all without my crutch, without the silliness that is alcohol.

(The reason I'm doing this can be found here.)
(Week one is here.)

My glass is empty: Week one

I'm sure you'll all be thrilled to know I survived the first week.

Not a drop of alcohol passed my lips.

Saintly, I know.

But let's be honest that's the easy week. It's barely an effort to give up alcohol for seven days. Especially since I stayed in on Saturday night and my Friday night was a non-alcoholic event (Flying South; everyone should go next month!). I did a reading, the first time I've read my stuff out loud for actual people. That was pretty awesome. And I did meet people in the whiskey bar beforehand. I ordered a cranberry juice. So there is that, a small victory. I was definitely taking baby steps, testing the water. Quite literally. Week two will have more interesting things. I'll do something exciting this week, well at least I'll try.

                 Liz has been nominated for "Devil of the Week" for trying to get me to drink on Sunday night. 

I was thinking about alcohol this week, about my relationship with it. I don't think I have a negative one per say but when you look at binge drinking stats it's clear I don't have a healthy one. To be honest, I doubt anyone I know does. It's surprisingly easy to join Binge Drinking Club.

Rule one: We don't talk about Binge Drinking Club.

Rule two: We always complain about our hangovers.

So, I figured I'd look at it in a way I could apply to my own drinking. Which was of course with wine. If a bottle of wine contains seven standard drinks (I would of said four but you know...) and women should only have eleven standard drinks a week....then how fast is the train travelling...sorry couldn't help myself...anyway...if you're not supposed to have these eleven drinks in one sitting, than if you do have a bottle of wine before you head out and a couple more in the bar, BAM, you're a binge drinker. I think that's probably a regular night for most of us. Binge drinking is defined as "six or more standard drinks in one sitting" so just finishing that bottle of wine alone makes you a binge drinker (http://www.yourdrinking.ie/about-alcohol/what-is-a-standard-drink/, 2015).

  Standard drinks measurements. 

                                           (www.yourdrinking.ie/about-alcohol/what-is-a-standard-drink/, 2015)

I'm starting to question my drinking history. I can finish two bottles easily and not give it a second thought. And yes, I am referencing my blog. Take that apparently wasted college education.

I love drinking; love the social aspect of it, love the giddy end of the day/week/semester/exam feeling you get with that first pint, catching up with your friends, making some new ones, the banter we all have. I love the easy acceptance we have in this country and how you're not judged for needing a pint at the end of a tough day. I don't love the fights, the messes, the vomiting or the abuse you see shopkeepers, bouncers, bar people, bus drivers, wait staff, basically anyone who is sober and working, gets. I don't like how alcohol helps some people regress to toddlers; throwing tantrums and fists when they don't get their way. I usually avoid town on a Saturday night. It doesn't feel safe. I'm a Monday to Thursday girl. Any of those evenings, I'm happy to be there, usually in the same bar having chats and a couple of drinks. But once the weekend arrives, it all gets a bit too real. The bad relationship becomes all too clear.

And I think alcohol is the excuse but it's not the reason. Oh the joy the bubbling recklessness of alcohol brings, the lack of inhibitions, all those silly rules holding you back. The things people do when they're drunk are the things they want to do when they are sober but aren't brave enough. You want to text that guy, kiss the girl, tell your secrets, and other ridiculous, reckless things. Alcohol gives you the freedom, the possibility to do all these stupid things you can't do because of responsibility and obligations and what you should be doing. It's the get out of jail free card, the alter ego that made you do it. And it's the apology you barely need to explain, the "Sorry, I was drunk" excuse that can be easily forgiven.

I know last year that's what I used it for. The chance to do whatever the hell I wanted. Text that guy again, stay up all night even though I had work the next day, the chance to feel alive when I was sinking...and that's when it gets dangerous; that's when you know you're in trouble.

Life is so much more than those reckless nights and messy mornings.

It's more than gossip and drama.

It has to be.

(Some cool links I found if you want to figure out how much you're actually drinking: http://drinkhelp.ie/alcohol-and-you/how-much-am-i-drinking/calculator/ (I worked out my last night, the one that sent me on this little journey, and apparently I drank 14 standard drinks and 1330 calories of alcohol that night. Holy hell. Also I'm pretty certain I left out a few drinks I couldn't remember.) http://www.drinkaware.ie/know-your-drinking/drinks-diary/)

Also the reason I'm doing this can be found here.
Week two & three are here.

Flying South Reading

Little thing I read at Flying South last night. It's an amazing mental health themed evening run by some very cool people. I would encourage everyone to go at least once. It's on the last Friday of every month. There is poetry, prose, music, tea AND cakes! 


                                            Walking in the cold

I walk to work in the dim morning light. The air is frosty, forcing its way through the gaps in my clothing and licking my skin, creating the soft kiss of goose bumps. I trudge on with my two honour degrees weighing down on me. They told me education would get me places, would make me money and that would create happiness. Yep, thanks for that shitty advice. My breath pours from my lips, dewy drops of oxygen turning to clouds that I walk through, frizzing my just-straightened hair. Another sign of a stellar day. My bad mood, the one I've been in for about six months, creaks awake stretching out its long arms. It expands its massive body, making itself comfortable in my chest.

I play the same game I do every morning; the what-if? game.

What if I quit?

What if I ran away?

What if I got a little bit sick?

Not so much that I’d die, but maybe a little bit of appendices or even a broken leg. Something that got me off work, that would let me have a break from this darkness I’m living in. Today I decide on a nice flu, something that would last about two weeks. I just need the chance to sleep.
The icy ground tries to trip me up, a slide my shoes fail to grip. I tip-toe across the danger balancing on the balls of my feet. My phone tells me I’m late, the time flashing with never-ending accuracy. As I squint at the bright screen, tiredness creeps into my bones burrowing into the marrow for warmth. I shouldn't have stayed up last night, but going to sleep meant waking up on today. If you don't sleep then tomorrow never comes. Except, of course, it always does, hitting me with cold air and my own bad advice. I hate my past self in moments like this. Fucking idiot never learns.
The leaves have fallen off the trees in the last few weeks. I crush there withered bodies into the ground, no crunch left. Just a soggy mess clinging to the soles of my cheap shoes. The identical houses change to shops, smiling mannequins looking down at me. I look for my footsteps, for the imprints I must have left on the concrete. I've walked it hundreds of times in the last few years. They're invisible to everyone but me.
There was a moment I willingly climbed into this rut, scaled down its walls and took shelter in its hidden depths, its listed routines. But now the walls have grown so tall that no matter how hard I try to get out, I'm lost down here. Looking up into a world I can't quite get to, touches of it on drunken nights and in forbidden kisses. My freedom is intricately linked to inappropriate men and a hazy sense of recklessness.
The shop sits in front of me, bloated on its feast of consumerism. It looms like a villain on the horizon, watching me with squinted eyes and dastardly plans. I'm sure it didn't mean to ruin my life. It wasn't its intention to dissolve the edges of my carefully constructed boxes, slipping into the different compartments and painting them its dull shade of grey.
I unlock the door with shaking hands, my gloves a distance memory from Saturday night. I switch off the blare of the alarm waking up cold birds in the parking lot. They screech in annoyance and fly away, covering the sky in a fluttering black blade. I turn the lights on to what should be a perfectly manicured floor and curse whoever left the rails of clothes and the mess of rubbish behind the till.  Good work doing your job, assholes. It's not that I dislike the people I work with but sometimes, when it's cold and I've had two hours of sleep with a full day is looming ahead of me, I really, truly, despise them. Just do your job and nobody gets hurt.
I turn away, muttering jinxes and black words, the negativity building until I stop feeling like me and turn into her. The work girl, my shitty version, the one who gets me through the day. The smell of coffee perks me up as I set up the day, floor plan, emails and handovers. A short apology note for not finishing. Too busy they say but when I check the money it tells me otherwise. They just weren't bothered, wanted to get home and that’s a feeling I understand.

Only nine hours to go...

I shrug it off, the clinging anger, and try to envelop myself in an I-don’t-care attitude. It results in the loss of another tiny fragment of who I am and what I want. I don’t really know who that is any more. Or have a clue what I actually want from my short life. All I seem to know is this clogging black feeling and my inability to find the light.

Six weeks without alcohol....Lets Go!

Let me set the scene: It was Friday night. I'd been working all day and it's time to chill out. I met up with some friends, had tapas, drank sangria and headed to my regular for some wine and chats. I think everyone would agree it's a pretty perfect night. Good food, good company and very good times.

Until Saturday morning.

My head! My body! Why does wine hate me?

It felt like my head was trying to detach from my body. Like my brain had been sucked dry and was gasping for water in the empty caverns of my skull. But the worst part was I missed a writing course I'd been looking forward to for about three months. Couldn't leave my bed, was way too ill. It got worse. The weather was fabulous, friends were meeting up in town, and I was on my couch trying to convince my brain not to move out. My brother had friends over, about 30 lovely, loud friends, and I spend the day hiding in the sitting room avoiding the increasingly drunk and excitable people. It got me thinking.

How many of my activities revolve around alcohol? (A lot of them. Most of them if I'm honest.) And how much money to I spend on it? (Almost all of it.) And what could I be doing if I wasn't wasting full days lying on the couch? (Lots of fun, exciting things.) And what effect is this having on my poor, long suffering body? (Probably more than I know.)

So the plan was created in my poor hungover state. Six week without alcohol.

I do know what you're thinking. Who hasn't decided to  break up with alcohol after a bad night? Who hasn't decided they're done with all it's false promises and bad decisions? Done with the broken hearts and sick stomachs? The regrets of drunken texts and words that should never have been said? The embarrassment and shock at the amount of money spent? Sworn off the evil liquid....but only until the next time. Like a bad relationship built on false promises you think this time will be different. You understand your limits now, you'll never abuse it again. And it's good for a while, you respect each other, drink water, and stop when you've had enough. But it never lasts. There is always another drunken night followed by the never-drinking-again ritual.

I rarely have bad nights. When I came home from travelling in October, those bad nights, drunken messes to clean up of regrets and mistakes, were rare. But recently there does seem to be a few more mornings of oops, a few more hangovers, forgotten conversations. A pattern is forming. The relationship is become reckless again. Alcohol is daring me to go further each time and pushing my limits. And this is not mean girls. A limit has to exist.

                                          


So, back to my plan. Six week is a doable amount. I want to try new things and have fun. Pretend I'm travelling and Dublin is a new city to discover. Luckily, my wonderful best friend is on board. Wants to try the new things with me. I'm nervous. I've tried this before but never with much conviction, mostly the decision has been based on a hangover and some bad night. But this time, it's been building. Sitting at the back of my head since January, waiting patiently for me to decide the right time. Which is apparently now. I'm telling everyone, creating some sense of accountability. Most people are supportive, some have laughed, some think I'm insane. But, that's fine. Better insane than predictable.

So, my glass is empty and hopefully it'll stay that way. Wish me luck.

(Week one can be found here.)
(Week two & three are here.)