how the point of the exercise might be self-reflection and not self-flagellation. how acknowledging hope can be its own sort of victory. Partly because for the first time in several new years, i feel like i have the emotional energy to focus on goals beyond getting out of bed on a day-to-day basis, but also because i’m less concerned about what failure means. lots of them are small: i want to start composting (like, why don’t i do that already?), some are bigger (hey, maybe this is the year we really get serious about what the fuck it is we’re doing with our life, yeah?) but more importantly, lately i feel not so afraid about what will happen once i give my aspirations a voice. This year i planned to continue this antagonistic and widely unpopular protest, but i keep bumping into things about my life that i really do want to change. Last year i resolved to stop making resolution lists and would tell anyone foolish enough to ask me, known cynic, about my goals for the year to take their futile hallmark card traditions and shove them up their sentimental ass. unchecked items are haunting enough when they only exist inside my own brain when their unfulfilled promises are brought into the public record – scratched in a notebook, taped on the mirror, or god forbid, spoken aloud – the humiliation is complete and devastating. Resolutions have always seemed to me like a written record of new ways to disappoint myself and others (which, if you’ve spent most of adult life in the surreal terror that is imposter syndrome, you need those like you need a second asshole). I’ve posted about my views on new years resolutions on this blog before: historically i don’t trust them.
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