I read my stars today. In the Herald Scum. Reluctantly. But I remember someone telling me once that Jonathan Cainer is always on the money.

Bloody Hell!

What happened to all my jolly reverbing?

Your new year will start with a shitty bang (as opposed to a chitty chitty bang bang?). Everything from 2010 will be vomited back up. Starting today. But don’t worry, she’ll be right.

Thanks Cainer.

It started well enough, and then my parents arrived. And I turned into a stinky, malignant, squidgy turd.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m a firm believer in the old saying that we all make our choices in life. You can get up, or you can stay in bed (wish I’d done the latter today). And it’s got me thinking: Is there ever a time when playing the victim is ok? Can we not simply blame others for what we’ve become?

It’s 2am on New Year’s Day – now officially the day after New Year’s Day – and I’m on the balcony, freezing my tits off, a bad neck and headache from hunching over my laptop, and blaming all the fuckers, particularly the ones asleep downstairs, for everything that I’ve done, and everything that I’ve never done.

I see the signs of depressions hanging overhead, swaying with the gumtrees. I feel its goddamn fingers rubbing my temples, my shoulders. I’m smouldering with hatred and regret.

I want to be alone and fearless. But I don’t know where to start.