You're supposed to learn something. That's the consolation prize for the incipient wrinkles and the extra flesh on your hips, for the softening of your corneas and all those dead cats. Here I am, standing at the cusp of new year-
Who am I kidding? I'm not standing at the cusp. I'm skulking. Or crawling. Crawling toward the cusp. Crawling away from the cusp, facing backward. Actually, crawling is really too active. I'm sitting at the cusp. In a fetal position. With my head between my knees. Rocking.
Anyhoo, the cusp, etc., and what have I learned? For what precious knowledge have I bartered the last twelve months, paying out day by reluctant day?
- That particular sensation of mild self-loathing mated with existential confusion is, in fact, dehydration.
- Bedbugs suck.
- If you scribble solemn, heartfelt New Year's Resolutions on a scrap of paper and then place that scrap, with ceremony, in a safe place, you will forget a) what you resolved and b) the location of the place you had the temerity to think was safe. Both by July.
- Part of you is still in high school.
- People die. Also they lose their minds and their hearts; they forget you.
- Morning keeps coming around.