Bon voyage, 2015

Oh, 2015. I’ve never met a dumber year, a year that I had as little use for as it had for me. You were the year that unemployment insurance ran out long before I got another job, a year of scant prospects, late rent, and more ramen than any 34-year-old should respectably expect to eat. Domain names and data were lost—we may never know what all movies and TV shows I watched from 33-34. Shitty people all around the world did shitty things to people both shitty and not shitty alike.
But then again, someone had the good sense to hire me to write about France for a living, and the new Star Wars decidedly did not suck. The point is, 2015, I did not get you at any point. Your expectations were unreasonable because they were unknown. You were capricious and mercurial. You didn’t follow any narrative structure of which I’m aware. I’m willing to let you half off the hook for being part of the Jesus Death paradigm, but you have a lot to answer for to people who weren’t 33.
I don’t know how things will turn out with 2016. She’s young, new, and our relationship is full of possibilities. She has nothing to apologize for yet, and we have nothing to forgive each other for. She might be crazy, she might not. She might not even decide how she feels about me until our time together is over. But our time, 2015, has come to an end, and whatever sins 2016 might be guilty of in the year to come, I already have a detailed rap sheet on you, and even if I wasn’t about to meet 2016, the time has still come for you and I to say our goodbyes. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.