We've often been told that to give in to our emotions would leave us stranded in a position—that while journey is enjoyable—most people would pay good money to void. We've all been in that place. That crucible where we have the almost painful temptation to give in to our whims. We know it's a path better left alone. But the weed-choked alley somehow caught our fancy. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to take a short traipse down that path…

And therein lies my undoing.

I would risk calling myself a weak hedonist. A glutton, a sensualist. A greedy little sponge. The list of pejoratives goes on and on. Even if I were to exhaust my formidable vocabulary I would still not have the words to describe my moments of weakness.

My contemplating my state of mind—if you can call it that!—is not a signal of depression, I assure you. Nor is it another promise (yet another one!) of turning over a new leaf—which I probably have no intention of keeping. Perhaps I like picking at scabs.


Who doesn't?