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The Reaction

The new year is a strange goalpost to recognize. Does the annual memorial for recently-consumed Christmas leftovers really merit a deep moral inventory of one's self? I feel like the fiscal year would be a better way to go, or something lunar. I'm a financial wiccan, apparently. I rub crystals to summon my familiar, which is just a floating wad of cash. After all, what magic is more mysterious than a good credit rating?

The girlfriend pulled back from kissing me at the designated it's-a-new-year-and-let's-shame-the-singles portion of the holiday. Like, a totally lame New Year's peck. Here's to the year of her not kissing me past, and possibly the one ahead. What I wouldn't give to not be madly in love with her. Here's to another year enmeshed in the complication of having a relationship so fulfilling in some respects yet disheartening in others. Here's to the middle passage, through which I and we now travel.

If I said I was in a bit melancholic right now, would you be surprised, based on prior experience? I soldier closer to my goals. My wicked plan may just let me gather all of the pieces of the Triforce and finally make my wish for facial feminization surgery. I will actually have a degree come May. But my anxieties mount, and victories only glimpsed upon the horizon seem hollow.