Anybody wishing you a happy new year lately?
Anybody asking how your new year is going? No? What a surprise.
Wanna know why? 'Cause there ain't no new year. There ain't no old year. It's all the same fucking year.
Over and over and over again.
Janis Joplin had it right when she said: "Tomorrow never happens. It's all the same fucking day, man."
So what the fuck, what's the point? For Christ sake, it's January 19 and you haven't lost a pound. You're working the same soul-sucking job. You haven't even killed your boss yet, right?
You get home and go right for the whiskey and, three generous drinks in, you are fantasizing about crucifying your boss, you visualize yourself driving the spikes through the palms of his hands and his feet, blood spurting up into your face; dripping in rivulets down the front of your shirt, blotting out the writing on your name tag.
You raise the cross, making sure it is firmly planted. Then you begin throwing ball bearings and lug nuts at his body until it sags in agonizing death.
You dream about it but you haven't done it yet, have you. What happened to your to do list?
You haven't moved anyplace warm. You haven't bought that motorcycle you covet, you haven't picked up your guitar or started to learn to speak Italian.
You have not increased your earning capacity; you ain't got enough money. More sacrifice, no access to the finer things.
You have not begun to move in more interesting circles, you are not challenged by creative and interesting people.
You are moving in circles, like a dog chained to a post.
It's all a conspiracy, man. The holidays were created to inspire false hope. You get a little giddy with all the glitz and glimmer. You start to think that life could be better; Christ it could even be fun. You think, "Yeah, man - I can change. I can turn my life right around; reinvent myself and bring happiness, success, pride and money back home right into my heart and my wallet."
Yeah, baby - you picture that big fat wallet and all the good things it will deliver. Dinner out whenever you want; clothes to be proud of; nice car; bills paid, no worries, mon.
You realize that money ain't the root of all evil; the lack of money is the root of all evil.
Suddenly it is the middle of January. Cold, clear, winter skies reveal the truth.
You are shattered. You ain't gonna change, nothin's gonna change. You are stuck in a swamp, treading water, giving up dignity until you die.
You become empty. You put your head down and dutifully go to work. You pay the oil man and eat cat food.
You become legless, helpless and subservient.
That's what they want, man. They want you broken and servile. Now things can move ahead as planned.
For them. Not you.
happy new year, baby.
(Editor's note: Despite the tone of these words, I remain resilient and hopeful in 2017. I don't even know where the words came from. The Devil, I'm guessing.)