Ah, 2024—the year that really put its arm around my shoulder, leaned in close, and whispered, “You thought last year was rough? Hold my beer.” I’ve spent the past twelve months staring into the abyss, only to find the abyss staring back, shaking its head, and passing me a pamphlet titled “Better Luck Next Time, Mate.” It’s been the kind of year that’d make you believe karma isn’t just real; it’s got a personal vendetta. 

This year’s been a bit like being slapped with a dead fish repeatedly while politely thanking the fishmonger for the pleasure. Started off by finally kicking the door open on that long-term relationship—one so toxic it could’ve been used as a chemical weapon. And believe me, walking out was less about a bold new future and more about preserving the last shreds of sanity left in my shredded soul. Spent three-quarters of that time hoping things would magically get better, but that’s like hoping a horror movie villain will suddenly decide he just wants a hug.

So here I am, back with the parents, bless their hearts. They’re saints, they really are, but the sheer existential whiplash of being 44 and back in your childhood bedroom is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It’s like life has hit reverse while simultaneously slapping me with a “Get out of jail free” card, only it says, “Just kidding—welcome to the world’s worst rollercoaster.” And the thing is, I know it’s the economy, I know it’s not my fault, but you can’t shake the feeling you’re starring in the world’s bleakest sitcom, where the laugh track is replaced by a slow, agonized sigh.

Then there’s the whole being single thing, which is either a glorious liberation or a pitiful abyss, depending on the hour of the day. Sure, I love not having to cater to anyone else’s needs, but let’s not kid ourselves here—I miss that simple intimacy, like a human connection that’s deeper than the average interaction you get in the self-checkout aisle. And watching others casually breeze through life in relationships while I’m stuck in this absurdist one-man show? It’s like the universe decided my love life needed to be written by Kafka.

To top it off, I’ve got this Achilles’ heart—I give everything, put it all out there, heart on my sleeve, raw and vulnerable, and as predictable as a punchline at this point. Sometimes it feels like every new wound is just rubbing salt into the ones I’ve been carrying since I learned to walk, but here we are, fighting on anyway, an unlikely soldier in the trenches of his own life. Because, at the end of the day, what else is there to do but keep swinging? I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this year take me down without a fight, because, after all, if I’ve come this far, I may as well see how much more life can throw at me.

So there you have it. Thank you for reading, and if you’re wondering what that strange, slightly off smell is, that’s just my soul airing out.

06 April, 2024

My Life

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