An Inhuman Condition

I sit at my desk wasting away the working hours of this dull-and-dying, penultimate day of the year 2009. This has been a lame year, limping along to its denouement in a begging-for-euthanasia sort of stupor as if it’s the golden year of an aging decade seeking a quick release. This Friday it will be 2010, and personally I cannot wait to be in its loving, infant embrace. The beginning of a new year coupled with the start of a new decade has a shimmering glow of hope as if somehow the changing of the calendar will encourage people to drink less, study more, lose weight, stop smoking or be less of an insufferable prick. I don’t personally subscribe to any of that resolution bullshit, but I still feel the radiation of possibility that floats through folks this time of year.

My attitude toward self-improvement has always been that I will make the change for myself and succeed or I will fail miserably. I don’t need programs or pamphlets, occasions or opportunities, assistance or assuagement. If something is important or necessary, I feel like I will figure it out eventually. It does me no good to pretend that I will make drastic changes in my life and then be miserable when I don’t or the changes are insignificant. I’d like to think that I’m always progressing toward a better me. I’m never sure how to quantify that theory, but I do like it. I think every few years I can look back and see some naiveté and flaws that have faded away. I’m being honed by time and experience into a mighty, virile missile.

By that logic, 2010 will see the best Nate to date. He will be stepping ever-forward into slimy oblivion with a wide smile and derisive glare. The coming year will be a delightful balance of misery and happiness coupled with an almost-lethal dose of the weird (assuming trends continue). Oddity and circumstance will seek to break me at times, but I will boldly shake my dick in its direction and march on. I can feel some good things coming, and I will do my best to welcome them.

So I propose a toast to a year of high-tech computery shit, the crack-cocaine of micro-blogging, artists and dancers, empty valentines, rampant and depressing economic collapse, awesome foods, pots of coffee, piles of cigarettes, excellent music, post-optimism, mi familia en fuego, OMGWTFBBQs, truck driving, 7.13-10.28, robots, birthday shenanigans, finally moving, the cyclical death and rebirth of a man named Winston, early mornings, late nights, two-hour travels, elections and erections, man-dates, LAN parties, sober spells, personal hells, Denny’s, friends, writing, and somehow striving despite an inhuman condition buried cancer-deep in this machine’s corroded core signifying fuck nothing.

And to a happy new year (at least some days).