One of the exceptional side effects of crossing the international date line is that in, taking this trip to China, I inadvertently did myself a favor—I was able to make 2011 a 364-day year. While it may seem insignificant to most, trimming a day of this miserable year is one of the greatest gifts I could have given myself.
I’ve dug 2011’s grave myself with a plastic spoon in frosted terra firma, and my hands—frostbitten and blistered—savored every ache and pain imaginable. I constructed its casket with wormwood and lined it in thorns and needles. The headstone I crafted with the precision and patience of Andy Dufresne with modest tools. It’s epitaph clearly reads, “2011, Go Fahk Yourself, may you not rest in peace, and God have no mercy on your soul.”
As the ten final grains of sand pass from the top bulb to the bottom, I will rejoice in knowing that I have beat you this year… I have stolen time from you as you have stolen so much from me these last 364 days. I stole a day from you, time, and have earned every right to do so. In those last ten seconds, I will be screaming at the top of my lungs my revision to The Mountain Goats’s song… “I HAVE made it through this year, and it didn’t kill me.”
I shed for you no tears, 2011.
