So, today is the day before the very first day of the year 2017.
I don’t find importance in holidays but NYE is actually more than a holiday or whatever. It fucks with your head, your past, your future and makes you think about time more than anyone should; and time itself in every form fucks hard with me.
I can’t predict how long to give myself to run errands before work. I’m either way early or a little late. I never start things with the right amount of time to finish them because I start so early (due to anxiety of time) that I forget I need to do it and procrastinate, regardless. I am so lost in every moment I not only suck at moderating time but I can barely recall much of my past.
But this year is going to have an awkward mental start for me not only because of these things but because I am hoping 2016 was the worst year of my life. I’m 23– hoping this year will be the worst of my life, high hopes?
But, I’m afraid that because I didn’t do anything to help myself this year, the worst may be yet to come. Because no matter how often I have found myself believing that the year following the death of my brother MUST be the hardest year of my life, I have to face facts.
I’ve been ignoring my sorrow for over 365 days.
I am 99% sure that only one consecutive week this year did I stay sober, and celebrated the fact on day 7. So have I even mourned? Who’s to say?
I don’t believe there will ever be an endpoint to THAT kind of sorrow.
Never did I lay around, cry and/or talk to someone about what happened, unless you count the time I was shit faced at the bar and secluded myself from my friends after breaking out in tears I didn’t feel coming and just assumed they were because of my brother.
That’s how out of touch I am with what’s going on in my head. Was I even crying because of my brother that night? Or was I just mourning in general and because that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, it gets the blame instantly.
That kind of sorrow doesn’t disappear. I fucking hate it. It doesn’t make me sad to talk about my brother with anyone, but if he’s brought up in conversation I instantly regret it because of how it makes others feel. Who wants pity? But the problem is, I think there is an unsaid expectation from bystanders for traumatic event recovery. As if it’s similar to romantic heart breaks, which will ALWAYS disappear with time. So in a couple years, I’m still gonna be fucked up in the head and no one else is gonna realize why.
Or maybe that’s an excuse. Maybe I should have already found a way to accept it and already be a strong successful women by now, who grew from her pain.
Not only did I maintain a constant state of fuck up for this last trip around the sun–
Ya girl fucked about 15 different people this year. That’s about the SAME amount of people who I had slept with before 2016. I don’t really care, or I wouldn’t have kept doing it. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to pay for an abortion or deal with a disease this year. Other than a couple UTIs I’m walking into 2017 with a squeaky clean pussy. Knocking on wood or whatever because I had sex this morning in my usual form of taking no precautions.
This post just went from serious and reflective to a real joke, real quick.
Let’s look back at it.
On January 1st 2016, I smoked a blunt alone in the rain by the river in Savannah.
Erin and I drove to Savannah to go out for new years and had a blast. She was ready for us to go to bed, in my car. I wasn’t. I traded a bicycle taxi a cigarette for a ride to the water. I sat under an umbrella by the river and smoked a blunt. I was so content. Even though my phone was dead, I didn’t find my car until 7 am and was walking around for hours in the rain, I was happy to start my year that way.
I spent a full day in jail.
I slept, read, and folded jumpsuits for what felt like an extremely long time.
Donald Trump was elected as president.
And everyone in the country began to see the truest of colors of those they know and love(d) because of it.
I almost brought a girl home.
She thought I was so gay and so experienced, until I told her otherwise. I thought she was so gay and experienced, until she suddenly appeared at a party weeks later and grabbed the arm of a man I was about to climb like a tree, asking, “you ready babe?”
My chiweenie turned two.
But Boethius will always be my lil six pound baby.
My parents moved out of the house I lived in for seven years.
My mom says they needed to downsize now and prepare for their old age and my dad’s Parkinsons. Now I don’t have a bedroom to go home to.
I tried cocaine for the first time.
And proceeded to do it any time this year it was offered to me because who wouldn’t? That shits expensive.
I blew all of my money on taking a spring break drive to NYC with Erin. Among many adventures I was able to walk through central park at sunset. I loved every bit of it.
I saw both Hop Along and Manchester Orchestra in concert.
and was in absolute bliss.
I lost my religion.
I lost my career plans.
Not because I lost my religion, but because I was going to school in order to be a religion professor.
I was in the weddings of both of my very first best friends.
My cousin who is nine days younger than me and my Britt. Both of who I am not very close to and have very little in common with now, both of who began to realize that this year (to be fair, I changed. They didn’t at all).
I made this on Britt’s bachelorette trip to a bomb as beach house (planned by yours truly).
I tried LSD.
It was good. It was with Zach, Johnson and Daniel. (All of which I have slept with at different periods of time, multiple times.)
I successfully participated in anal.
and liked it.
I had some things important and valuable stolen for the first time since my fundraising candy was stolen in high school.
They took $120 of probation money, 3 iphones and my planner. But they didn’t take the drugs and my back pack was taken to the police department where they ALSO didn’t notice that hash oil in my wallet.
I learned what it meant to have great sex.
also learning that it takes two, baby.
I got through with my year of probation for my arrest.
I think I’m done? Still haven’t heard from my PO..
I received the first of many to come living room tattoos.
I have the Picasso dachshund tattooed on the back of my leg (where my chiweenie sleeps). It has more than once been mistaken as a penis, which makes it even greater.
I voted for the first time.
I’ve never been registered in the college towns I’ve lived in. But I became an Athens resident this year and with motivation from the Donald, I was with her.