If I was to look back at all the emotions I felt this past year, I would admit that they were significantly less compelling than previous years. I pulled all-nighters, I laughed, I cried, but I didn’t jump off a four-story building, or bike to California. I worry that if I don’t kindle my little flame of insanity, I will lose it. Nevertheless, this has been the best year of my life and I didn’t even have to do anything. Today marks one year sober. It is everything I imagined I would have to do to win back the trust of those I hurt. I imagined this day through the five years I tried to achieve it, the speeches I would give sharing my wisdom, the phone calls to ex-girlfriends, my shiny new coin. What I didn’t imagine is where I would be in my life, and I think that is what makes my life a satirical black comedy. I get what I want, but it is nothing that I wanted. I’d much rather be a published author in some ditch shooting up. Some advice I was once given has been turning over in my head. None of those external affirmations matter because you (i.e me) are a good person. Why does it feel like people who attain success don’t know how to appreciate it. If you are a young writer I’m not talking about you. I don’t know who I really hold a grudge against these days but I’d much rather be someone else. I don’t want every right of passage to be sour and jaded. Walk to New York, took a bus home. Biked to California, broke both my legs. One year sober, the party is over. Another piece of advice I was given was that I shouldn’t live my life for others, or because of others. I would never achieve my goals if the prize was someone’s affection or my father’s trust. I had to do it for me. What a lovely bunch of bullcrap. I am not enough. I might have the foresight to know you are not enough either, but together we might go twice as far. I don’t do good with achieving my goals. It is a good reason to relax. I’ve done nothing this whole year. I don’t deserve a cake. I will also say that a year is a hell of a lot shorter than I remember. I can already smell next Christmas. Everything else from my childhood will surely fade into the background, so I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t grow up as well. I’m a stupid stubborn man-child. I hope someday somebody sees that for as much of a failure I feel like, I tried to persevere so that somebody might recognize a glimmer of hope in the idea that they are not alone. I don’t feel alone. I feel like we are all alone. Hallucinating a mirage of mystic mayhem that passes for a 9 to 5. What a great fucking year, let’s hope.
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Ben Bonkoske 