2018, final-fucking-ly

The last day of 2017 took way too long to fuck off. By the time I woke up here in Alberta, Canada, the streets of Singapore had already been wiped clean of celebratory debris, and hangovers had already been greased over and dealt with. And by the time I had nestled into the black mood that had been cast over me and was looking for a way out, a second wave of ushering in the New Year in Europe was splattering over social media. Even after I finally downed a tequila shot out of desperation, I was still hours away from 2018. By then, time had become a monster deliberately holding me back, which only compounded the unrealistic expectation that a new year would bring new beginnings.
At 11.57pm, I was smoking in the bitterly cold garage, bundled up and wondering why Canadians do not just leave their country in protest of such absurd temperatures.

At 11.58pm, I wondered if I should snuff out my cigarette and head back into the living room, where he was silently scrolling through his phone after a long, black day between us.

At 11.59pm, I found myself unable to move, exhausted at the thought of another Serious Conversation, wondering what the point of being with someone was when, at the impending stroke of midnight, I was all alone anyway, and worse, thinking that was perhaps the better option.

At 12.01am, I tossed the disgusting cigarette butt into the disgusting almost-full can of stinky butts and re-entered the house, wondering what to do with the rest of my life.