It’s January.
The voice in my head answers the world: Already?
Yes, it’s January.
I try to get out of bed and fail. The voice inside me growls: Again?
It’s not the same January. It’s a new January. It is the year 2025.
The voice inside me collapses and surrenders: That’s impossible!
With both hands pressed against my temples, I beg the world to be quiet and end its tireless spin. As you may have guessed, the world doesn’t listen to me and keeps on spinning.
I fucking hate Januarys.
This time of year, everybody is just too goddamn optimistic for their own good. Happy New Year this and half-assed resolution that. Making promises they won’t keep. Signing up for memberships they’ll never use. Charging new stuff they can’t afford to cards they should’ve cut in two. Proposing marriage to people they subconsciously (and/or consciously) hate.
So everything must be new now? We have to throw everything old out, even if it still works? And we all have to suddenly become saints? For god sake, enough already with all this newness and goodness. The next person I hear mention life goals, AI, or the future is getting my leather boot thrown at their head.
I don’t have much. Let me keep my sins. Let me drink and smoke and fuck and swallow what I want. Let me enjoy my vices while I still can.
Let me re-watch the same TV shows and movies nobody cares about when I should be sleeping. Let me stay out till sun-up with friends I’ve known since middle-school. Let me close my eyes and listen to the voices of the dead sing.
I know this all sounds like just another curmudgeon’s rant, but let me make one thing clear: I’ve been an old man since I was 8-years-old.
My family used to call me Nino Abuelito Chiquito (Little Boy Grandpa). Because I rarely smiled, was dead serious about everything, and always sounded like my elders whenever I opened my big tiny mouth. Every time I threw my toys and erupted into another rant, someone would laugh, point at me and say, “There he goes again. Little Boy Grandpa is having one of his fits.”
I am trapped in this body. I am imprisoned in this mind. And I’m fine with that.
I’m tired of new beginnings. I’m tired of starting over. I’m done evolving.
I’m an old-fashioned bastard. Change exhausts me. Either give me the familiar or leave me the hell alone.
I just want to hold on to what I have left.
My bed, my blanket, my books, my cup of frayed paintbrushes. My 12-year-old coffeemaker. My 2008 rusty Honda. My little, lukewarm bungalow at the edge of this scarcely visited street with its chipped facade and crooked faux-wood floors. The calico cat sleeping under my porch. The hairs on my stupid head. That last little slice of sanity I keep tucked under my pillow.
My memories, both terrible and great. All the accidents, the shitty jobs, the drinks, the scars, the surprises. The trees, the moons, and the suns. All the kisses and the punches I’ve taken and given. All the love and the ache. All the girls that wanted to save me, help me, change me, and failed, god help them. (If there is still one out there).
If I could win back the familiar love of my ex-girlfriend and revisit the comfort in her arms, I’d want that too. Not the girl I broke up with in February. I’m talking about my first girlfriend. The girl with the thick black curls in the shimmering silver dress that I met on a starry, sweaty prom night in New Jersey. The one that was so kind, she made me instantly forget about the girl that stood me up. (The other girl was too busy laying with a top jock to dance with me. I wonder whatever happened to her?)
I probably should have married my first girlfriend. But after four years, she couldn’t put up with me anymore. I should have changed for her when I had the chance. When I was still young enough to choose who I wanted to become.
Today is the first day of January. It’s cold as hell outside, and I’m not just talkin’ about the weather.
I can hear the young couple that lives next door fighting again. They’ve been at it like mad cats almost every week for months. But this fight feels different. Bigger. The worst. The finale.
It’s starting to hurt my stomach. My curiosity gets the best of me and with one giant, elf-like ear pressed against my thin wall, I hear the boyfriend cry out:
“You kept asking me to change. You said: Change, change, change, change! So I changed for you. And now you’re criticizing me for changing!? Fuck this. I’m leaving!”
They should probably give up the ghost. But I don’t want them to. I hope he comes back. I hope they can change. I hope they can try again.
I don’t want them to end up like me.
Happy New Year, I guess.
Thank you for listening.
With Love and Rage and a Little Hope in my big black Heart for the Future, even though I want everything to stay the same.
- Logan
Help me stay awake and…
Give Up The Ghost by Radiohead
Don't hurt me
Don't hurt me
Don't hurt me
Don't hurt me
Gather up the lost and sold (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms, in your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
Gather up the pitiful (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms, in your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms, in your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
What seems impossible (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms, in your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
I think I have had my fill (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms, in your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms, in your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
I think I should give up the ghost (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms (don't hurt me, don't hurt me)
In your arms
Beautiful. I go through pretty much the same thoughts every January. Cheers from a fellow Little Boy Grandpa
Based