New year. The time for resolutions and goal-setting. Clearing the conscience and wiping the slate clean. Fresh starts. Blah blah blah. And yet, as fake and false and contrived as all that may seem, there’s something undeniable about the urge to reset.
Yesterday, in the spirit of such things, I tried to reach out to someone with whom I had once been close. All I received in response, however, was bland cheer. At first, it bummed me out and I vowed never to do something so sentimental again. Screw them, I said. Leave the past behind. But then I thought: No, hang on. You’re being unfair. He’s just keeping it civil. Besides (I thought) he may not be in that place yet.
The general consensus is that 2016 sucked. And it did. For so many reasons. To paraphrase the great Nelson Muntz, it sucked and blew. On top of the deaths of an alarmingly high number of cultural icons, humanity disappointed me on a global scale. Hatred, racism, xenophobia, ignorance, insularity and stupidity reigned supreme—and look set to do so for a long time to come. To wit: the people who voted for Britain to leave the EU will get their wishes—whatever the heck they were… eventually… maybe—and, come January, the United States has an unhinged narcissistic cyber-bully for a President. Worst of all, though, Joel Dommett didn’t win I’m A Celebrity, and, instead, a girl who’s famous for watching television is about to become a millionaire.
I want to talk about sensitivity—or, rather, more specifically, so-called “sensitive types”. Partly because I am one, and you know how I just love to talk about myself. (I’m clearly also a massive egotist.)