The Year When Knowella Didn’t Know Anything

I don't want to write this one.

I've been happy to write an end-of-year piece every 31st of December for the past few years, but I TRULY do not want to write one tonight.

I don’t even want to do anything, if I’m being a hundred percent honest. I don’t want to dress up, I don’t want to go for the service in church, I don’t want to scream and jump when the projector begins to count down till midnight, and I don’t want to soothe Hulk or throw him chicken bones when the fireworks startle him and make him bark like crazy.

I really would just like to sit and have something cold & fruity to drink — all by myself while streaming service in an empty house.

Shouldn’t I?

I woke up this morning with horribly puffy eyes that required an ice compress to calm, a dizzy head, and a nasty headache from crying for most of the night. It seems that the last day of the year brings with it an excruciating clarity of detail, when it comes to one’s perceived failures. It was the most surprising outburst for a hard guy like me, though; but I’m happy it happened. Crying is indisputably a Top 2 method of emotional release.

So I compiled a list of my wins for the year, and spent time being grateful to God for each one.

2022 was a damn good year. I can’t even lie!

I’m going in with a million questions: why did things not turn out the way they should have? where did all my vim and enthusiasm for certain things go? why did I have a novelesque romance and lose it? why did the year not follow the One-Year Plan laid out in my pretty & colour-coded Google Doc?

I'm going to figure it all out, though. I have God inside of me, and so I have every answer I'll ever need.

So I’m about to go in, guns blazing.

Who born the baga?