I accept that my problems are not anyone else’s problems. I also accept that, when my going gets tough, I have zero bandwidth for your business-as-usual requests for my (free) psychic take on your love life or astrology or spirit guides; your mass-printed holiday cards featuring kid pictures I already dutifully liked on social media; your relationships that would’ve ended years ago if you didn’t fear being alone or broke; your family dramas that don’t come close to a good year in my storyline; your preaching-to-the-choir in lieu of real political action; your housecleaner-stole-my ring “holiday stresses” while the world is hand-basketing to hell. Maybe next year I’ll summon a fuck, but not now, not while you don’t notice the person you’re petitioning also is tackling heavy shit even if she’s keeping it together. For the rest of this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad 2016, I’ll be watching Deneuve not give a fuck in “A Christmas Tale,” the best anti-holiday film ever made. You’re on your own, kid.
