see you never

Thursday, December 31, 2020

Last year, this time, I was stuck in a hospital bed, about to be sedated on a cocktail of antibiotics and painkillers. I'd been told that they'd decide in 24 hours' time whether they'd have to chop my arm off (I can assure you it was a lot more graceful than that). 

It's nice to have come out of that and have my arm type this out. I can't be more grateful. What's not nice is that I don't have a part of my family anymore, the arm remains but my back's gone. Done and dusted, with age, infections, and the rest. 

As much as I hate this day of the year the most (thank god for continuity of thought), it's good to be home and in my bed, and sitting against my laptop and not be forced against my will to pass out at 11 pm with the medicine I've had a serious reaction to and knowing that my parents are crying somewhere in the 6 km radius about the state of affairs. 

The year has been tough and testing and debilitating. I lived from day to day, hour to hour; every update seemed like death, and yet, just having survived this personally feels so much. Kinda like playing a game of Minesweeper. You know you're about to lose and just take mindful steps to avoid it, that best describes it. 

Fucking Anne Frank, I feel her now. Writing regularly and shit. 

Keeping this bit of a tradition alive with my last day of writing and out with the old business. There ought to have been a catch-up, year-end review bullshit but really, haven't you had enough with my year and the details that you didn't sign up for and yet got? This is meant for everyone in the world except that one solid cunt sitting somewhere in Europe, keeping her eyes on my movements and hoping to see if I tap the next dude or speak to the other ten and then call those dudes and their entourage and the rest of the English speaking world to ask/check on me, despite not having seen my face in over half a decade, in hope that she can ruin my fucking life and call it a "misunderstanding". Oops.  

To you, I say, go fuck yourself. 

As for the rest of us, and I mean this with all my heart, here's hoping we have an easy one. I'd like to chill, rest a bit, rise from the ashes, and there's no hard rule to that. Maybe keep hustle for retirement or some such. 

I've had enough bullshit and I'm now fucking protesting to have a godfucking high, a real high that feels like I've done nothing wrong and for good shit in the world to boomerang right fucking back. Enough with the hospital trips, drips, tears in the parking lot, tears while writing every goddamned piece I've written, tears while watching Christmas specials about a 30-year-old single person who is a fucking misfit and has no one, I've had fucking enough and I want to rest. 

As much as I know resting is for the dead, I am all up for it. 

Bring it on, 2021. But just don't fuck me over like 2020. k? 





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