…and I’ve already begun the process with a Korean clay mask. Also, I’m not sure what filters on my Samsung phone have made all of my beleaguered recent selfies appear somewhat convex, resulting in an alarming egghead and as though I have a hairline like Queen Elizabeth 1; but no matter how much I fiddle with them and slide them down to zero, I still look airbrushed and as though I should be lustfully poring over issues of Playgirl, wondering why England deserves my body instead of the hirsute studs contained within.

Virgin twinsies, she and I (except for the “virgin” part)!

So help me Rhonda, but I really don’t want to write the second half of my entry about the Taylor Swift Weekend–that’s TSW to those of us doomed to relive it–but it has to get done. At least, I think it does. I mean, there’s really nothing to report, except for the fact that downtown Vancouver was awash in a sea of Swifties, especially Saturday the 7th, and I snapped many photos of them out of amusement and because I thought the entire spectacle would make for a good blog post.

It really didn’t/doesn’t. While a good writer can take the mundane and turn it into entertaining prose, the problem is that I genuinely don’t care, and what’s more, it’s as though it never happened at all. There were enormous quantities of hype and advertising and marketing and promotion and tourist bucks pouring into the city, but within a day of the greedy little blonde leaving BC Place Stadium, Vancouver immediately sprung back to its tepid, irritable, somewhat normal self. One would never have known that Taylor Swift brought tens upon tens of thousands of people to the city, most of them (somewhat) resplendent in copious sequins.

Jesus. Okay. Fine. I’ll try to slog through the conclusion as soon as I can, just so it’s out of my mind and out of my life. However, rather than clack out some half-assed paragraphs about a wealthy pop star and her big-spending acolytes, I would much rather write about how, despite my tendency to complain about Vancouver for mostly dramatic effect (I love to hate my hometown but will probably never move away, even if I have the means), I’m extremely fortunate to have been born and raised here as opposed to enduring the literal gender apartheid and erasure taking place in one of the most godawful areas of the world I can think of.

At any rate, I hope everyone’s Christmas was decent, and by “decent,” I mean you didn’t fall into a deep despair. While I can’t find any articles online I can link to, I did see on the Vancouver subreddit (from which I have been banned many times, a very nice rite of passage for anyone who wades into that den of shallow half-wits with a differing point of view) that, on the late night of December 28th, the Lions Gate Bridge was closed due to a potential jumper. That night was also extremely cold, pouring rain, and stormy, making that soul’s feelings of complete desolation and anguish so much more difficult to comprehend. One can only imagine what sorts of mental and emotional bottoming-out it would take for an individual to willingly, maybe even numbly endure the horrible elements a few days after Christmas and wander across the bridge, seriously giving consideration to hurling themselves into the terrifyingly black, freezing-cold, swirling channel far below.

It’s monstrous to just write all of that out. I’m not sure what happened to him or her, but it’s none of our business. All I can say is that the Christmas holidays can be ruinous for so many for myriad reasons. There are those who do spend it with family, yet the experience is so stressful and negative, it impacts them on a profound level for weeks afterwards. There are also those who spend it alone, and the occasion is relaxed, calm, and without emotional turmoil (I did this once a few years ago, having only just pulled myself out of a psychologically- and mentally-taxing scenario shortly beforehand, and was not ready to put on some kind of brave front for anyone. My solo Christmas resulted in a very peaceful and healing day). However it went for you, since you’ve clicked here and you are reading this, thank you for being alive and having made it through, whether the whole affair was good or bad.

Geez, this is all pretty heavy stuff, man. I wasn’t planning or prepared to write any of that. I wanted to actually say a tremendous adios to 2024, one of the most challenging, aggravating, and confrontational years in recent memory (not just for me, but for countless folks around the globe). I can’t wait to wake up about 36 hours from now with the last year permanently in the rearview mirror, eager to tackle the goals, resolutions, and promises I have made for the year ahead, the most important of which is the final-draft completion of my first book. I hope you feel the same about the new year, no matter if you’re one of those curmudgeons who don’t see anything different about your life and goings-on from one day to the next.

Hey, I do believe in a reset and a new approach symbolized by the linear passage of time as indicated by a free calendar from Bosley’s Pet Store. Also, expect the best, expect the worst, but always expect a blankety-blank miracle. I certainly do. No matter how questionable things get, there’s always something to be thankful for, and something to learn.

I know I sound like a 25-cent wind-up platitude machine (not the worst invention, should one actually exist), but I mean every word: I had a massive shift in my brain grooves this year. It took a tremendous amount of work that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Happy New Year. May you find courage and insight and never give up. And if you have kids, make sure to teach them that alcohol is quite honestly the devil, even if you have to do that by way of embarrassing personal example tomorrow night.

Love

Nadya

P.S. I did not resolve to finish the fucking Taylor Swift piece.