2014 is sputtering out its last gasps. By the time anyone sees this, it will likely be 2015. Another year ticks by with nothing to show for it but lack of opportunity and failure for the very few opportunities I did have.
The end of the year is doubly a symbol of failure for me, because it's not only the end of a calendar year, but the end of another year of my life. I was born on December 28th, 32 years ago now. As another year passes by for the earth, so too does a year of my life go by in almost perfect unison. So now, as I type this out two days after my birthday and two days until the new year, I can say that both of these cycles have been completed once again without me seeming to be even one step closer to being anything, anywhere, to anybody.
I've mentioned before that I'm a failure, and as much as I try to move forward, the light never changes green for me. Year after year, I'm seeing red. Farewell 2014, another pointless waste of a year being shaved from my life with nothing to show for it.
As a point of habit, I've never celebrated New Year's eve. For one thing, I don't have the kind of social circle that gets me invited to parties. Big shock, right? And for another, I've always resented holidays that are used as an excuse to drink. I'm a fucking adult, even if I don't live like one, and I don't need someone to tell me when is a socially acceptable day to drink if I want to. So while everyone is out drinking and making out with their significant others (or closest strangers) while listening to a song by a poet they all REALLY ought to learn more about (fact: Robert Burns is better than you), I will be here in my basement, playing video games, and probably not noticing when the clock spins to midnight.
It's lucky that I've never felt an urge to celebrate the new year. Because if I ever had, I sure as hell wouldn't want to now.
I started this blog as a 29 year old living in the basement of his parents, and now I'm a 32 year old living in the basement of his parents. Not a 32 year old who dropped out of high school and has spent the last 17 years doing drugs, but a 32 year old who spent until 26 getting an education, getting a Master's degree, and then finding out what was supposed to be a practical, employable Master's degree wouldn't even make good kindling. And this basement is fucking cold.
32 is the year that you're officially old enough that it's hard to remember your age. 30 is easy because it's the big 3-0. 31 is easy because "holy fuck, I've gone a year past the big 3-0 and I still don't have my life together! 32 is when you stop counting because it's all just too God damned depressing.
A benign year for me. A malignant year for the earth. Progress happening for neither of us as we race to see who passes away first while looking back on what we've done to confirm that it was all a huge mistake.
