I’m just going to start this off by saying that tonsillitis is a bitch, and if it weren’t for the lava knives shooting up and down my throat right now, I’d be out getting crunk with the best of them. I could’ve been getting kissed at midnight (maybe??) and making drunken decisions that would seem terrible in the morning but great at the time, but no. Instead I’m curled up in bed, wondering what 2014 is going to have in store for me and wracking my brains for something to blog about.
It used to be that every January first, I’d start a journal. I wanted to document my life somehow, something that could help me remember. This is the year, I’d tell myself, this is the year I go the whole way. All 365 days. I never did get through the whole year. Once I got all the way to March, then lost steam for some inexplicable reason.
I don’t really feel the need to journal anymore. It’s kind of like prehistoric blogging. The Internet has made it much easier to document my life than the hardbound purple notebooks ever did. Between tumblr and Twitter and Instagram and Facebook, we can access information from any day of our lives at any time, assuming we don’t go back and delete it later. Our tweets and profiles and likes and pins are much more revealing than anything I could scribble down on a page. It’s frightening, and fascinating, and I think I like it.
So, if my Internet footprint has become my New Year’s journal of sorts: what would I want January first of 2014 to say? I could do a typical Year-in-Review post, but 2013 wasn’t a fabulous year for me, and there’s a lot of it I don’t really care to relive.
It’s probably a good thing I didn’t go out. New Year’s and I don’t exactly get along, as my tonsils could tell you. Last year I tried to party it up, only to find myself ringing in 2013 drunk as a skunk with a guy I was kind-of-not-really seeing. I don’t remember him making any moves on me, though I do remember drunkenly rolling around the side of his car and force-feeding myself saltines in bed so I wouldn’t puke. Then his ex texted him around one or two in the morning–his ex who is best friends with my best friend–and suddenly I couldn’t keep pretending to myself that I didn’t know he was still sleeping with her. Shortly after I came to this self-realization, I got chewed out by my roommate over a stupid miscommunication that she never actually forgave me for. He drove me over an hour to my parents’ house, and I cried most of the way there.
The year before, I was at work. Two douche-knobs came to see the last showing of “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo,” which meant that I got to start my new year in a somewhat grimy, lonely, quite-possibly haunted projection booth. The film didn’t get out until after one in the morning. Everyone was asleep when I got home.
New Year’s of 2011 wasn’t great either. In fact, it was probably the worst. I spent the night before at work, got home in time to watch the ball drop with my family, went to bed. Typical. The next morning, we got a call that my grandfather had been taken the hospital. Two hours later while we were in the car on the way to see him, he’d passed away. We spent the first day of January paralyzed by shock and grief, consoling my heartbroken grandmother.
Happy fucking New Year, amirite?
I know, I know: New Year’s posts are supposed to be full of resolutions and reflections and hope for the future and all that jazz. But I told you, I have a pretty fucked up relationship with this holiday. Marking the passage of another year always gets me panicking. I start thinking about all the things I didn’t do the year before, all the things I have to do this year. I start wondering where the time went, when I got so old. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, it’s still 2009. The higher the numbers on the calendar get, the more I panic. I start thinking about all the shit I have to get together, all the resolutions I make while knowing I won’t keep them.
So this year, I’m trying something different. Instead of an itemized list of resolutions, I’ve only got one.
I’ve let a lot of things run my life for me in the past. School, work, fear, shame, anxiety, insomnia, procrastination, pride, obligation, inertia. I let other people tell me who I was, what I wanted, what to expect, what to accept. I sat back and watched life happen to me; disconnected, disheartened and disinterested to the point that I actively resented my own existence. I’m not doing that anymore.
It’s 2014 motherfuckers, and I’m taking my goddamn life back.