Farewell 2010, The Best Year of My Life.
Without equivocation, 2010 was the best year of my life. What happened in it exactly? Well, nothing. For someone who spent his twenties in an insanely turbulent mess of depression, virginity, addiction, and social reclusion, I’ll take quiet. 2010 was the culmination of getting my shit together in the past two years. Do you like sports metaphors?
I blew my psychological knee out in 2008. The powers that be sent me to a wonderful place with fifteen-minute checks and people who were kind but would tackle you, should you make a break for it. Consider that reconstructive surgery. Last year was my first season playing on the new knee. Internally, this knee was glorious. Cleaner than it had ever been. But I was still learning to play the game again. To trust the knee. This year? It’s been the second of two quiet years, and I love every fucking minute of it.
At some point this year I noticed that I was genuinely happy to exist. To know how I was the prior seven years is to know how remarkable this was. Like a cough that wasn’t fucking there anymore, it took time to realize. Oh shit! I thought to myself. This is it, this is the fucking real deal. I’m happy to be alive! I stuck it in my mind and walked around with it. Like a toy that I didn’t want anyone else to know I had. Happiness. It was there in my fucking belly.
I’m wildly excited to be a part of the human race, in this particular moment in our development. This isn’t cheeseball bullshit. Well it is, and I mean it.
2010 was awesome.
I began my Master’s Program at UMass Boston. It’s been everything I thought it would be; namely more thinking and papers but on a higher, more difficult level. It’s good. My graduate program director was insane enough to give me an asssistantship, and now I’m going to school for practically free. And making money to talk about books. How the fuck is this possible? Don’t know. Don’t care. It’s really real.
My friends, who I have seen more this year than the prior six or so combined are fantastic. I couldn’t ask for a better band of dickbags, quasi-pederasts, and talented monsters. That’s the truth, yo. My brother? Not only is he my fellow contributor here on OL, my hero, and my best friend, but his coffee farts are world renowned. My girlfriend is beautiful, caring, and equally as demented as me. Slap on a support structure forged from adamantium that I could just about rest the Erf on, and we’re golden.
Then there’s you, the people reading this website, and contributing to it. Your comments mean everything to me. I’m nothing but an exictable dickhead. That’s the truth. But getting to shoot the shit with the lot of you is worth every incessant page refresh. Truth. So to the frequent peeps around here: C, MLK, Rage, Beeps, Robert, Greg, Gregg, Triple H, The Dude, Jill (of Aesthetically Pleezin), Clambake, Nick (of End Credits), Kyle, and everyone who just comes hear to tell me I swear too much and my adjectives lack panache: fuck yeah to the fucking yeah.
As well, there’s a band of people who inspire me beyond the rest: Ben from Mad Gear Solid for his continual amusement and excellence. Sometimes you stumble onto people on the internet and you’re like fucking awesome. If you don’t read MGS, it’s the UK equivalent of OL. Then there’s Hateball, from Mishka. I used to read his works over there and think one thing: this dude is amazing, he shits on everything I create. Well, like, he was so good it blew my god damn mind. Somehow he’s taken it into his heart to befriend me. I don’t know how. But if you don’t go to Mishka, visit it simply for his writings. And then there’s finally Patrick. The Coop. Patrick is the essential third Brother Omega, despite being from a different womb. Somehow I cajoled him into contributing over here, he never fails to entertain.
To you three pricks, thanks for keeping me going.
Should the Universe bestow upon me another complete trip on our solar ellipse, I’ll weep again next year. But for now, I’m fucking happy, 2010 rocked, and I’m out.