A Self-Loving-and-Loathing Prick's Prelude to End-of-Year Evaluation

Hello. It’s December, and how time fucking flies.

(I always pull that for my opening remarks, didn’t I? Feels outdated now (get the joke?) - it feels as if I’m seeking for whoever's forgiveness for not being able to evaluate more often. Of course time goes by when you only record your steps every half year.)

It’s December, and boy, did a lot of things happened.

(This, too, sounds painfully ungrateful. I don’t think I’m supposed to reduce all my experiences, feelings, and obsessions into a bucket filled with things that are somehow ‘a lot’? Even if I was dead early year and couldn’t write this sentence for today, lotsa things still would’ve happened. Invalid.)

Hello, December. We’re here for my irregular meet-up with myself, only pushed into context whenever I feel driven to.

(If that sounds somber, rest assured that it usually emerged not due to phases of sadness and despair (which were persistently there), but the reconciliation exactly after those: the phase when I thought I might know the answer, but could never be ready to commit myself to it. Often it was driven by a sequence of weak self-love, after moments of lethargy, or boredom, or rejection. Other time, it was simply on contrived rendezvous that demanded a look-back: contrived birthdays, departures and arrivals, end of years like today, etc.)

This isn't fucking working, and I've mostly forgotten what I wanted to write.

Let's try my next birthday. It's springtime, so my brain wouldn't be as frozen.