The division of time into years is a human invention and a strange one at that. Everyone around me — including myself, I must admit — keeps slacking these last weeks of December because we are all waiting for the new year to blow up in our faces and magically wipe away last year’s mistakes and broken endeavors at fulfilling the dreams we set out for ourselves when 2016 came knocking at midnight. And yet, every year we end up heartbroken somewhere along half-September when the dreams and goals and life fucks us over and the realization kicks in that this will be yet another year where your inner warrior is tired of facing up against a world too tired of its own mess.
Heck, I’m tired of my own mess (*in shopping cart: new life). I know I said I wouldn’t get all mushy … but well, I’m fickle. Sue me. This year has been the equivalent of watching the Twilight series while reading 50 Shades of Nonsense while getting hit full frontal by a truck after you’ve just got told that there probably was room for Leo on the raft when the Titanic sunk and all your hopes & dreams are crushed.
Or, as I like to state it. It has been the equivalent of breaking up with 1 boy, 2 jobs, 5 long-time friends, 9 diets, 14 unfulfilled dreams, 38 possible career changes, 76 unrealistic scenario’s created in my head that will never happen (adios, sweet dreams of swimming pools full of avocado) and about 784 fuckboys half of which are related in some kind of way to the German speaking continent. If you thought both World Wars were bad, just take a look at my love life.
I’ve come to a point in life where I need a stronger word than fuck.
I’ve learned very valuable lessons this year. The universe is a little bitch. For starters. And probably also for end-ers. Because that’s all there’s to it, really. And I couldn’t have loved it more. Because fuck, it has made me feel alive. It has made me feel, up to the point where I couldn’t remember which way was up or down. It has made me live life more intensely than the previous 21 years combined. Looking back on 2016, I’ve got exactly 12 hours to get skinny, undrink 265 bottles of wine, unsend stupid texts to the above mentioned German population, take back straight-forward hurtful jokes and get my life together. But then again, who am I kidding. All of it has made me more me. 2017 will be the year where I do more of what I did this year. Failing. Crying. Unfucking myself. Being who I am before all that stuff happened that dimmed my fucking light.
Because truthfully, I keep saying ‘new year, new me’ to everyone who will listen but in the end, again, who am I kidding — insert snorting laugh here. It’s a new year. But it’s still the old me; the one that loves to drink too much wine, the one that buys too many shoes, the one that is too confident, the one that is too bloody wild, the one that can’t get her life in order, the one that loves chaos too much, the one that cares more about others than herself, the one that loves food to an unhealthy degree, the one that overthinks, the one that loves too goddamn hard, too soon, too much. And no, I won’t stop fucking cursing.
So will 2017 be my year?
Ask me again on December 31st.
But I do know.
There is always a tremendous longing in my heart to be lost. And this year will be no different.