I made it back to good ol' Bend, Oregon today (That's right... again. I'm almost up to a free trip on my punchcard.), and one of the first things my mom had to say was that *everyone* was angry with us about my not sending a letter along with our Christmas cards this year. She let me know that some people - whose names she wouldn't reveal because she didn't want me talking with them - have gone so far every year as to save each one "in those little plastic page protector things, which they put in a binder, which they keep in a special drawer so the collection isn't lost." Then she told me I'm a star and one day I'll be a success, and that I just have to keep trying and it's not easy for anyone, except for all the kids with jobs whose parents she's talked to. The ensuing shoulder-squeeze-from-the-back-seat maneuver she pulled left me squirming awkwardly out of her grasp, at which point the proclamations ended and she started letting me know I needed a serious attitude adjustment towards those who actually loved me in life.
The point is, I'd actually completely forgotten about writing a letter this year. It hadn't crossed my mind a single time. I started soul searching for possible explanations as to the how/why of it, and all I came up with is that I really have no fucking idea what mom, dad, and brother bear were doing all year, while I myself was mostly a worthless heap of angsty nonsense. All in all, it doesn't add up to much more than some pesudo-whiny monologue where I actually have to talk about three other people in addition to just myself. In short: it would've been just like this blog, but less narcissistic.
I contemplated writing a letter for this post, so that the eight of you who actually claim to read Minor Fiascos would be the only eight souls in the world who knew that I actually *did* produce a letter this year, but letters are like super hard to write, and again with the whole me not knowing what anyone else did all year thing.
So just take my word for it: 2011 was a half-n-half year: a good chunk of it delighted, and an equally good chunk crushed my will to live. I used to be that eighth grader who hung out on the playground's fringes, eating Corn Nuts and listening to Blink-182 scream about how nobody likes you when you're 23. "It's so true," I thought. "Nobody does like you when you're 23."
And then 23 actually came. And went. And now I'm 24, and I finally understand what Mark and Tom were singing about. I understand that from a third-party perspective I may appear to have a lot going for me. Internally speaking, though, my accomplishments mostly serve as cruel reminders of the person I *could* be if someone would ever willingly hand a job opportunity my way. But I digress. The points of this post: no Christmas letter, but it's cool because if you're reading this it means you read my blog and so enough said, and also 23 is a super harsh year in terms of adult realities and adolescent idealism just completely fucking crashing up against one another.
Here's hoping the one that gets me a job wins out.