It's been quite a while since I've visited with you—the eight people who are reading this blog. (I've upped the number from five to eight because I think my parents and one friend—hi Nina!—are now logging on.) New Year's Eve frigtens me, what with all the drinking and vomiting, so I hid inside and watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High. That's right—and I'm not even ashamed.

It did bring back a childhood trauma, though: For at least one full year of high school—which can feel like five years—everyone called me Spicoli. Ha. So funny. Spikol. Spicoli. They weren't even basing the mockery on correct pronunciation. Spikol rhymes with nickel, or pickle, or fickle. Not stromboli.

I'm working today, though the rest of the world has off, because that's what it's like in a deadline environment. It sucks. I'm bringing myself further down by listening to Arvo Part, a classical composer of scary, ominous music. I feel like I should be in a Vietnam war movie, with my buddies getting gunned down in slow motion. You know, like Platoon.

But enough chatter. We'll get on to some mental health-related headlines soon enough.