That’s right 2012, you left the building and I didn’t say a word. I should have kissed you goodbye, like I always do in these situations, but this time around I just didn’t feel the urge to put together that nostalgic post in which I usually look back and try to come up with an honest balance of that 12-month relationship, while the whole world prepared to part ways with you by drowning into copious amounts of alcohol, food and gunpowder.
Maybe I was too busy catching up with my family, whom I hadn’t seen since you and I first met; they have been filling me up with all sorts of fantastic food and their loving company is always more enjoyable than any bit of writing I could ever do. Or maybe it was the heat; high temperatures tend to slow me down so instead of sitting in front of my laptop, I much preferred to lay in the garden with my dogs, placid, where no wifi could reach me, clearing my skin under the sun. Or perharps it was the rum I’ve been indulging since I arrived; back in England rum and cokes are so expensive, and so poorly served, that when I’m home I just get carried away and things end up getting a bit out of control.
Whatever the reason, though, the fact is that I forced myself not to say farewell. You see, last year I kindly asked you to be nice and gentle, and you turned out to be one tough and challenging motherfucker. Yes, you brought me some joy and happy moments, but boy, you sure gave me a hard time. You kicked my self-esteem and tested my will more than once but I suppose there were lessons that had to be learnt. I like to see it that way, and although this post might sound to you like a complaint or a personal attack, trust me, it is not. Seriously, it isn’t. All I’m saying is that this time around, I didn’t feel like looking back to wrap things up, the same way I don’t feel like asking anything in advance to your brand-new substitute, either. This time around I’ll leave the pleas aside and will just hold to my hopes with all my heart. That’s all I’ve got and, right now, it feels like it’s all I need.
Having said that, I just read this is the first time since 1987 that a year has all its four digits different from one another, so I guess that makes 2013 somewhat special already.
Who knows? Maybe that’s a good sign
Failure is Fuel 