Gutter.

Jan. 1 is the only day when dropping the ball is not only acceptable but celebrated. As I unwillingly acknowledged the meandering descent of some oversized, sparkly orb down along some metal rod in Times Square, I considered my situation: out of an internship due to the pitiful economy, my olfactories and auditories simultaneously clogged yet uncontrollably leaking mucous due to illness, and an increasingly stressful non-disclosable situation that destroys any semblance of a good night's rest.

Generally, I'm an optimist, a rare breed that teeters on the brink of extinction as the years increase in number. Indeed, it's getting more and more difficult as time progresses, as life lurches forward before I'm ready to let it, as the world slips further into the depths of despair and cynicism to remain loyal to my youthful and dream-filled visions.

Sometimes I wonder if this is the "miracle" of growing up, but quickly squash the thought by indulging in deep fried foods, dense literature, and city excurisions via public transporation. The key is mobility, the lock, well, everything I have yet to learn. I have an opportunity to apply as an editor for Hyphen Magazine, hopefully a fruitful endeavor that will somewhat satiate my need for written cartharsis.

I feel confident in my ability to persevere, the only real threats to my luster for life being myself and a choice few individuals I deem closest to my heart. If any of these individuals, or most importantly I, cease to hope, my optimistical demise will follow.