Your throat swells; you cry more than when Ben chose Jane, or Matt chose no-one in particular just somebody who wasn’t you and did it specifically on New Year’s Eve when you had to sleep at his house because some things must absolutely finish before you ring a new year in. Most people give up smoking or crack. But I’ve been the necessary drop, disposable time segment, and I could never figure that habit out, of starting January with less than I started, because pre-Easter was give-up time, Lent time, and I visited each Station of the Cross like a gallery stop seeing Van Gogh or Holzer. Sundays were a day off, and if you count that up, you could easily have a week in a year-time of the thing you quit. Me.
This, the best feeling in the world, is capturable on TV, luckily, or we’d forget it like the specificity of every proposal, linger, finger, fuck or purchase. Checking bank statements is a past dwelling waste-time, and this might be the only existentialist quest there is.