I count down to the new year with no expectations whatsoever. If you’re like me, it’s not that you don’t care, it’s more like it hurts too much to do so. Not a stomach cramping kind of hurt, but more of a throbbing. A persistent throbbing moving from limb to limb and muscle to bone to heart.
I mean not to depress you: all you lovely, cheery, happy go lucky folk who are living up the last moments of 2016, no, this is not for you or maybe it is, I really don’t know. What I know is that I feel like the less than vibrant few who are affected by the deep dark glaring gaze of society.
This time of year aches us not because we are less, but because it is thrown in our faces that maybe we should be more than who we are. Family dinners ask about jobs and lovers and what next in our lives and if you’re like me, you can’t answer any of those correctly to a table of expectant ears.
I am not depressed. I am a practical girl from a small island biding her time and thankful for opportunities and people who don’t expect shit in return because they are genuine at heart.
I am a half statistic. Why? Because I got the job and finished school, but according to you judgmental folk out there pilfering away at society, I am half because I haven’t started a family. I applaud all who have and I repeat screw you to everyone who expects from me such happenings just yet. I almost typed frivolities instead of happenings, but I wish not to belittle the concept of starting a family, because it is beautiful, just not my current cup of tea.
I will continue to drink my coffee and I will continue to spike the punch and I will continue to be a drug induced (really just poetically inclined) young adult. Not expecting anything from the world, eyes wide and bushy-tailed as I sit and toil and sweat and just type away on this New Year’s Eve, because hey, what’s better than a comfy couch and knowing exactly how I’m getting home tonight designated driver and all.
Happy New Year…