2011: go f**k yourself. Not to say that 2011 was a bad year. I was feeling fully on my feet ready to take charge of my life and really stop pissing myself off this past year.
I did most of that. I managed to send out a few more things I wrote than I have in the past ten years, so that was good. I accepted the fact that I am who I am and there’s no need to change any of that. I’ve grown into a person of respect and intelligence tempered with school boy giddiness at times. I know that I’m capable of love and that I deserve love. (I deserve adoration, but we’ll save that for 2012.)
It’s funny to try and think about an entire year and cram all those memories into one day. I don’t think I have the literary skill to convey the complexities and trivialities of the past 365 days. The tribulations were many but all were overcome. I’ve stared at myself in the mirror with a drunken smile often this year and counted the growing numbers of gray hairs on my head. Veni, vidi, vici.
Popular Mechanics said there’d be jet packs and pill food, moon bases and space shoes by now. I thought there’d at least be a wife or kids, a house or a dog, a picket fence and a yard to mow. Neither of those things happened, but I’m possessed with a calmness I didn’t know I was capable of.
I’m not worried about those things. My wants for 2012 are pretty simple. Spend more time in the arms of a beautiful woman that wants me for me and who wants to hold me. I should stop smoking. I should exercise. I should pay more attention to the needs of the many sometimes and stop being such a jerk to some of the few. I want to be regarded as a serious writer and get something published. Did I mention being held by a beautiful woman? I think I did.
2012 had better not be a frigging jerk. There’s a lot of pressure on it already, what with the world ending and all. I’d hate to be the year the world went all kla-blooie in. Then everyone would be like, “Ugh, you remember that ass 2012? Good gravy what a jerk”.
As this New Year exits the birth canal of Mrs. Time (Father Time’s wife of course) and starts screaming bloody murder, raise a glass of your favorite beverage, alcoholic or not, and pray to the God’s of our ancestors that we are not destroyed or cursed or mashed up into meatballs for intergalactic douche bags.
Cheers! Happy New Year!