2016, I let you finish, but 2017 WAS THE WORST YEAR OF ALL TIME

18 days left, you guys. Only 18. Make it count OR better yet, light that piece of shit on fire and send its ass to Valhalla.

What a year. What a doozy. I hope you all faired well in this shit storm, but since this is MY blog, we’re going to talk about me. Hurricane/Tornado/SuperStorm TWENTYSEVENTEEN ripped the door off the cellar that I had been living in all of 2016 and if I was ducking out and shaking the year before, 2017 made me shit my pants while it ripped off all my clothes and then made fun of my naked, feces covered body.

I’m going to break it down month by month, post by post. Hopefully I’ve repressed most of the absolute horse shit, but one of the many poxes put upon my infancy was a memory that never lets me forget (apparently everything BUT calculus – and that shit could’ve gotten me somewhere in life).



The clock strikes midnight. Its January 1st. My nipples are putting the Mohs Hardness Scale to shame as I light off fireworks with my siblings. Sighs leave my mouth and fill the air with condensation. My sister is kissing her boyfriend. I want to puke. Three guys are texting me. I’m praying the cold will freeze my phone and it will shatter. My prayers go unanswered.

By the end of the month, I feel stuck and wildly unhappy in Anchorage, so I decide to pull my feet from their cement blocks and see my besty friend, Jen, in Portland. One four-hour flight later and I’m waiting in PDX, (an airport which brings me an onslaught of horrible memories that hit me like flash bombs – which is a post for another day) scoffing at its carpet and how many times I’ve admittedly taken pictures of my feet on it. For whatever evil reason, Portland is colder than Anchorage this day. And for whatever eviler reason, that makes the highways back up like crazy. I’m camping out in this arrival gate waiting for my friend to pick me up. But no worries, we are going to see the Blazers play the Lakers in a couple hours and I was more than elated to see Jen. I honestly can’t be bothered. When her Honda Civic pulls up to the curb, I can tell something is wrong. Her grandfather HONEST TO GOD passed away while she was driving to pick me up. Our plans unravel and waste away in front of my eyes and hers welled up with stingy tears, telling me that she is sorry, but not as sorry as I am. I want to turn around and get on the next flight out, but she assures me we will go see Meyers Leonard’s fine ass. We leave the game before half time finishes. I stay in her apartment for the next two days while she attends to family – as she should.

I board my flight and arrive in Anchorage early February 1st.

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