Happy new year, motherfuckahhhs! I’m jealous of all of you who have managed to strip down your Christmas trees and drag them out to the curb. I have no heart for this type of deconstruction, me and Christmas go together like booze and more booze. WHEN ELSE CAN YOU GET AWAY WITH BAILEYS IN YOUR MORNING COFFEE EXCEPT DURING ORGY WEEK? Don’t answer that, I know at least two of you who think “Orgy Week” is just a state of mind and not the days and nights of gluttony, fapping, and tv binge-watching from December 26 to January 1. This might be the better way of thinking, instead of all this self-deprivation resolution gym/diet shite that only leads to self-loathing by mid-January.
One of my friends on the Facebook posted a New Year’s greeting that last year at this time, she set an “intent” for each and every day and is now, a year later, reaping the rewards. I’m earnestly (yes!) happy for her and I think we should all take a page from her book (or I think she might even have a blog more constructive than this one) so I’ll try and interpret what is the crux intention. I am a self-proclaimed armchair Buddhist with my moon rising in the fundamental teachings of Jesus, so my heart in almost the right place, bear with me. I think “intent” means she is going through life mindfully and with purpose, rather than trudging through the cornfields like bewildered space aliens thinking we have some place better to be. Cornfields, fuck, I’m never going to get over last year. See, I, personally, have to mindfully intend to move forward, NOT think about the past. So I’m going to list some intentions that I found in an old Oprah magazine I breezed through at a walk-in clinic, UTI’s, yo, what a bitch….Remember, intentions are not to be confused resolutions because those are for amateurs.
1. Live in the present. I don’t really know what that means either, aren’t we always living in the now? Now I am writing a blog post, there’s an Uncle Smoke chicken pot pie in the oven, I am way too excited to eat. Is it wrong that I’m looking forward to 45 minutes from now? I don’t think so, maybe I should revel in the anticipation? Also I have to pee. I’ll go pee, wash my hands, come back. I always intend to wash my hands but I never do. It’s true, my friend JHo always says I’m the fastest pee-er but I’m not really, I just don’t want to waste time washing hands. THESE ARE PRECIOUS SECONDS I WILL NEVER GET BACK. So many things in the present (like handwashing) are just so boring I don’t want to do them. How can I possibly live in the moment when the moment is so fucking time consuming? Isn’t while I’m doing Amish chores like scrubbing the pots and pans, where I get to mull over the past and those particularly poignant moments where I have been hard done by, the place where I can work myself up into a rage that I actually don’t need steel wool, I can scrape all the burnt grease off with my emotional bile and chewed off fingernails? THIS IS GOING TO BE SO HARD. Also, I fret over the future, you know this about me. Hold my hand, please.
2. Keep a gratitude journal. What’s that? Oprah is such a task master. Everyday write 10 things you a grateful for and the gods of Disney fairy princesses will bestow you with all the luck in the world plus an abundance of cash money, fame, and all the hot fucks so your genitals will explode like an A-bomb that will actually create all the love the world needs to end hunger and war. I think we’ve gone over this before like last year, me with my eyerolling and you with your leather bound notebook from the Japanese paper store. Show me your diary now. I thought so. You didn’t even bother to write in it, that’s okay though, I like the way you draw anime porn. Personally, as your poor man’s Oprah, I think you should just be in a permanent state of gratefulness, fuck writing this quackery down in list form because you’re sure as shit not going to be rewarded for it. You should make gratitude (and humility while we’re at it) your default attitude. But don’t be a dick and expect anything out of your newfound lease on life because that’s not how it works. Also I think gratitude journals are the gateway to becoming cripplingly superstitious which is just plain unmindful. True story: I know of a man who drives with one hand on the wheel and the other hand massaging the crucifix around his neck as he mutters his thanks to Jesus of how he is grateful for his healthy crotch spawn, who in is mind are the second and third coming of Messiah-palooza, whilst interspurtantly he yells obscenities at other innocent drivers, who by the way, are obeying the rules of the road, all the while safe in the confines of his American-made gas guzzling SUV, windows rolled up. Mastering the art of gratitude is going to take more than writing in a journal, it’s going to take an ass kicking. We can hold each other’s hair back while we barf out our egos. Gratitude comes from the deep bile hole which contains this poison:
3. Judgy-wudgy-itis. To paraphrase the true second coming, Oprah, stop judging other people so goddamn much. Yes, we are all going to laugh at the follies of the crack couple who thought they were trapped in a locked closet and pooped in it FOR DAYS because that is just natural selection. I still think it’s okay to hate on the buffoonery of the Bieber, and we can write in our gratitude journals how grateful we are that he has been more or less quiet lately and how the gods of social media were on the ball when he lost all those Instagram followers in the master cleanse of 2014. If ridiculous didn’t exist then where would comedy be? BUT! Can’t we let people express themselves who they are, how they self-identify, dress ,or create artistic content if they are not hurting anyone? Aren’t we all in this world together, like aliens in the cornfield, and we should look out for each other? Or simply just leave each other the fuck alone…maybe I did learn something from last year. It’s just such a hard road sometimes. Sigh, fap, lather, rinse, repeat.
Okay, I just ate the pot pie and feel the happiness of satiation which leads me to my own intent for 2015 and I hope Oprah feels the same way:
Stay fat, bitches! There’s so much to do with that waffle iron you got for Christmas, it’s crazy.