Ratios.

It is not about the big thing, or the little things. It is really just about the relationship between them. It is all about ratios.

This was going to start as another "fuck all of this bullshit, I am out," but now I fear it will be a bit more reflective. Sure, I could rant about my bullshit neighborhood, full of people who leave their dog's shits on the sidewalk, Scientologists, and parking that, frankly, sucks my ass. I could rant about my bullshit car, which is a slowly dying by degrees, no thanks to the vandals, thieves and assholes who live in this city. And I could rant about how I will never be able to afford to replace it with one that has all the modern amenities, like AC and a working lock. I could rant about my bullshit tiny, over cluttered apartment and how, beyond having no flat surfaces to be found, is impossible to even turn around in with a fucking avalanche of shit coming down around your ears. But I won't. Anyway, it would mostly be working up to ranting about how the odds of gaining employment with my bullshit skill set are about as good as otherwise ameliorating anything else with my bullshit mindset. But, since this shitstorm is all of my own doing, I can't really lay that on you.

And so I reflect.

Turns out, that in a few short seconds, I can trace the putrid streak of bullshit back upstream to January 8th, 2006. In one night I managed to not only end up in jail but also to pause long enough to lay a steaming pile of failure on pretty much everything else. And now, in one way or another, I am doing exactly what I've been doing for the last five years: trying to dig myself out of my own shit.

Well, say I, fuck that.

Take all of those little things, the petty, the relentless, the inescapable, the insurmountable, the mundane, the gnawing, the poisoning bullshit and weigh it against the big picture. It is all about ratios. And it takes a whole lot more than five years of borderline depression, stress, doubt, and self-loathing to outweigh feeling at home, feeling satisfied, feeling loved, and feeling, despite everything, generally OK. It is all about ratios.

So, thanks a bundle 2010. You tried your very best to shit in my cereal. And sure, I did eat a few bites from the top before I noticed, but the rest of the bowl was fine, even tasty. It is all about ratios, right?

And so, I would like to quit complaining for one fucking second at the end of the year and say thanks to you all--the number one lady, my friends, my family, blood-related and otherwise-- because I am still here to happily extend my central digit to 2010, and even smile as we head for 2011 with high hopes.

Can we have one last chance?

Happy New Year.