Chinese velvet

Another year passes, as years do. This first night is much like all those before. Winter reigns and the rain falls, hissing in the wind. Gutters clog with trash and leaves and waste. People wander the cold streets, clinging to their umbrellas and cringing behind their upturned collars. The pigeons huddle in the trees. Widows spin their ghastly webs. Idiots honk at each other angrily. Things never change.

Denied Oregon, I spent New Years across the street with our Lovely Neighbors. Their festive little soirée exceeded my expectations at every turn, and was, in fact, a blast. It was all tinfoil stars and cheap wine; drunken people from San Mateo jabbering and laughing. The Neighbors were gracious hostesses, as always. Jolene and I got a little out of hand, but then again, we do that. Besides, every New Years party needs a fistfight to spice things up.


The usual resolutions still apply.

Write. Write more, and better, specifically. Work out. Achieve physical, spiritual, and artistic invincibility. Conduct my affairs with flawless Ice Coldness. Flawless. Rule my subjects with iron benevolence. Keep it real.

You know, the usual.



A true story.

At the party, I am approached. Inebriated and honest, a girl confesses her feelings for me. She drapes her arm around me, and looks deep into my eyes. “Trevor, I had a serious crush on you, till I heard you use the F word four times in one sentence.”

I look at her, gauging her honesty.

“Well, fuck.” I say.



My stack of books beckons. There is much to be done.

Happy New Year, readers.



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