The end of December always has a bug being spread around of looking at the pending year as a whole. As healthy of an immune system I like to think I have (I’ve never had the flu and I’ve never made a new year’s resolution to lose weight), a string of changes in 2012 is enough to map a theoretical projectile of what 2013 will be.
(Many of the changes in 2012, of course, were in logical sequence to events in 2011, which were in turn related to what happened in 2010, much of which started in 2009, which in itself was planned back in 2008; that year was a reaction to both transitions and stalemates in 2007, which in theory should have reached greater accomplishment given the new stage of life I was forced to start as of the beginning of 2006. How boringly linear.)
What’s to come in 2013 is largely a part of what has already started in 2012, or at least what I intended to start in 2012 but never got around to. The arbitrary point of a “new year” is supposed to provide that push, so perhaps I shouldn’t mock people who make new year’s resolutions as much as I do. My role in my own life has grown from a passive inner dialogue commentating on seemingly autonomous functions of day to day life to an active participant in things, as little like me as that sounds. I will inevitably become an executive member of a community organization. If I have any self respect, and that’s one of the transformations 2012 has brought me, I will see career advancement. I am determined to be more creative, healthier, and abide by my own values by seeking constant improvement in an ethical lifestyle.
To balance these improvements that may be coming my way no matter how hard I try to hold myself back, I’m looking to keep safe the parts of me that always question the value and substance of the linear life cycle. (Note how “linear cycle” is an oxymoron.) I’ve transitioned from a bitter pessimist to a spiteful optimist, because being happy with my own cynicism is such a rewarding act of defiance that I will defend it to my hopefully odd and likely early death. I’m no longer suffering regularly from depression thanks to finding the beauty in what’s wrong with me, and I plan on continuing to spite the medical-industrial complex (a phrase I hate using because the people who use it think they’re so fucking smart and profound) by being contently fucked up. In the bigger picture, at least, that will be the case. I reserve the right to be sad and angry, and I will need those emotions to handle all of the normal and positive changes that I can’t stop from coming.