Have you ever felt like your tools outright hate you? I don’t mean your electric drill suddenly turning on you, à la Skynet. I’m talking about things being generally uncooperative. You know, the spoon that spills and splashes, the key that refuses to fit in the lock, the gawdamn USB that won’t go in the slot. Or, specifically in today’s case, the divination tools that won’t cooperate.
There are certainly days I feel under attack my physics in general, and there are days when it seems metaphysics is out to get me. It’s hard when a tarot deck that has taken a disliking to you keeps turning up cards the divination equivalent of a middle finger. I don’t know why I persist with this deck. Anyone want a slightly used Rider deck?
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I think every year starts with promise – and promises.
I could wax philosophical and suggest every day starts with the same, or that it’s all a construct by consensus because time is both relative and meaningless.
But I think we’re all a bit tired of that contrarian perspective. Even after 2020 and its terrible sequel, 2021, a lot of us are tentatively looking toward 2022 with hope for a fresh start.
Our collective consensus of time agreed that at 00:00 between the 31st of December and 1st of January we’ll open our new diaries and write out our promises to ourselves for the year ahead – knowing full-well we’ll lose that book before March, find it again in August, use it for a few days, then sigh at it again in December.
Maybe we’ll fill in a few pages we missed to justify the few bucks we spent on the thing in the first place.
First, yes, those are my glorious ‘gams’, replete with stubble I grew myself, and a few creases from the bed socks I wore overnight.
Second, let me just acknowledge my friends who are missing one or both their legs and those who have limited or no motor function in one or both their legs. I know I’m lucky to be able to write about this from a position of full-functioning privilege.
That said, I’ve never been especially attached to my legs.
I mean, obviously, I’m ATTACHED to my legs, but there’s fuck-all about them to write home about, even if I’m about to dedicate a whole journal entry to the gobs of flesh and bone south of my butt.