A Definition of Madness

You know that popular definition of insanity? The one where it says that "insanity" is doing the same thing over and over again, but still expecting different results each time? Well, I am insane then.

Take, for example, my propensity for whisky. Every time I get the bottle out of the cupboard, I tell myself that I will be having "just the one", and that I'll be satisfied with that. Do I really, honestly expect then, that this time my resolve will hold? Am I really, honestly surprised when the resolve that I supposedly harboured in my mind suddenly flies right out of the cracked window as if it were a fluttering whisper of grey ember from the fire? When I reach for another whisky?

And smoking – each night as I wake at the uncurling hour of 3:30 a.m. and find myself coughing as if I were a pair of sagging, leather bellows, I vow never to have another cigarette as long as my wretched life continues. Then, after a few more dark hours of self-hate, I wake up and leave my bed and immediately after breakfast, I reach for that pack of Marlboro Lights and spark up once more.

But it isn't just the debauchery that repeats itself. It's also the lethargy. Is it really feasible to believe that if I get up each day and do nothing, that something – anything – will change? Yet (foolishly) this is what I believe – that each new day will somehow miraculously transform my life into a glittering trinket-box of wonder without ever needing to do anything about it myself. This is, of course, madness.

I mean, every time I let that wretched stray cat into my apartment I always (again, foolishly) imagine that he'll behave himself; that he'll use the litter tray instead of the curtains; that only one saucer of milk will be enough; that he'll curl up in the swirls of my caring arms and purr contentedly, dreaming of the exorbitant luxuries of a feline world. But instead, he disappoints me – nay, deafens me with his relentless and illogical miaowing; breaks me with his ever-demanding cries for more milk; soils me when he soils my environment. When will my shrivelled, feeble brain ever learn from its mistakes?

So, now it is January 1st. Is this a time for resolutions? No, of course not! Should I make a corset-bound pledge to cease repeating the errors of my pathetic habits? No, it isn't possible! We are not only in a New Year, we are in a New Decade (although the purists will tell you that this doesn't happen until 01/01/11) and as such, we are meant to stocktake the leaking, rotting barrels of our previous resolutions and plan for changes that will convert our sad bladders of life's hopes into something touchable and real. Ha! There's absolutely no chance of that happening.

For how many times have I vowed never to spend another evening shepherding in the rosy fingers of a new year, and yet (because of the habitual delinquency and drunkenness) I still find myself dismally heralding the genesis of the ticking clock, which is only a madman's invention anyway? This, I did again last night.

Happy New Year.