Farewell, 2019; may the backhoe hit you in the ass on your way out…

... and not miss and crash into my face which, given your character – you did, after all, enter the timestream by knocking out the neighborhood's power in true fire-wielding, spark-flying fashion thanks to a tree branch downed in the climate-change infused wind before, mere weeks later, sending a backhoe into our lives and into my father-in-law's Ford Escape – and my father-in-law – a saga still unfolding – would be an-all-too-appropriate middle finger / fuck you / sayonara. 

(Allow me to return the symbolic favor, 2019.)

But I don't believe in new years or new decades bringing anything (nor in years or in decades in review; I can barely remember yesterday) beyond a numeric representation of another day, another turning of the clock over upon itself, another revolution of the automatic revolving doors through which we can only hope to time our approach with reasonable acuity so as to make it through its glass partions before it bites us in said ass.

My only hope is that I continue to fortify myself against myself, learning to accept the things outside of my control, keeping what works, and being merciless about the necessary jettisoning of what doesn't; a lack of backhoes would also be nice, but I'm not counting on it.

Listening: AFTER DARK, by Forest Management.