February began today, already. I’ve finally adapted to dating things “2012″ instead of “2011″, although it looks wrong to me every time I do it. Not because I’m so used to the old year, but because 2012 is THE year. The one that’s been hyped even more than the ushering in of a new millennium. I’m sure very few people actually believe the shit is about to hit the fan; nevertheless, now there is that collective association. We could have the most placid year ever on the globe and otherwise well-adjusted folks will still be looking over their shoulders every so often until midnight on December 31.
If the universe has a sense of humor, it will wait until January 1, 2013 to fuck us up–after we’ve all heaved a sigh of relief and realized we’ve been holding our breath all year. Sort of like the friend who sneaks in and grabs you from behind the moment you’ve confirmed there is nobody hiding in the closet, or the Hollywood shark that takes a chunk of out the bathing beauty just as she decides the thing in the water with her is just another prankster after all. BOO! Terror is always most effective in the split second you’ve finally convinced yourself that everything is OK.
But to remain paranoid is to be the guy with the tin foil hat and the cardboard signs sleeping with one eye open on Chestnut Street. I don’t want to be that guy. That’s why I’m a hedonist. Because bad things are always just around the corner waiting for you, and some of them you will avoid, but some of them you can’t dodge. And in the end, there is no dodging The End.
So I embrace the cliche and try to live each day like it’s my last, enjoying each breath like I won’t have another, savoring each beer like the keg’s about to kick. Maybe if we could all live 2012 like 2013 was never gonna happen, it would be the best year ever instead of a highly suspect annum.