Writing at the end of the end

Now let’s get this out of the way: this year-end “festive” season has been hideously depressing for me; the way I’ve spent these last few closing days of an abominable year can hardly be described as “celebrating”; I had about 45 minutes of fun at a small barbecue with some atheists on Christmas before the beer high wore off and I just sat in my chair too sober to stay but too empty to leave; the other days I mostly spent in a zombified haze watching movies on my laptop and scrolling on my phone; I hope for nothing and all happiness for me contains its own imminent disappointment. Life is nasty, brutish… and, as Woody Allen points out in the opening scene of Annie Hall, ends much too soon.

I told one friend that lately I feel myself drained of all libido, and the invites to illicit parties just make me feel a thrill that quickly subsides into emptiness, and he said, “So just don’t go.” The other day, I was telling another friend the same thing, and he said, “The point isn’t happiness.”

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