The first two months of each year have always been a struggle for me. The end of the previous year is gone, and I find myself exhausted after all the craziness—the Christmas period madness, the preparations that felt like a low-budget military campaign, and then the 60 hours a week where catching up for breath is impossible. My life essentially becomes an endless loop of work, sleep, and contemplating the structural integrity of my various workplaces.
And then January and February float by, with me going through the motions. The effort put into these activities is typically just enough—paid work included—to keep the bank account at a barely acceptable level, an insane and unhealthy amount of time catching up on slop TV (which, let’s be honest, is peak mental nutrition), and developing a truly peculiar, almost romantic interest in the home thermostat. It’s the only thing that seems to be operating with any kind of consistent temperature.
The first two months of each year are when I give homage to my ancient ancestors and attempt to hibernate. I usually end up under a rock, inside a cave, or curled up in a cosy den. Failing that, I just find a small blanket and a large bag of crisps.
So, there it is, March has arrived, looking suspiciously like it might actually try to be warmer. We’re seeing different colours than grey—mostly confused browns and the pale green of my hope slowly wilting. And naturally, I get busy.
I started with the guilt, of course. Here we go again: two months of dedicated, professional-level procrastination. Seriously, I could win a medal. But then the guilt changed to acceptance, because, hey, I actually did things! I recharged my batteries, which are apparently AAA-sized, given how quickly I drained them. I started learning Chinese (it’s less “learning” and more “making weird, strangled noises,” but I’m trying). And most importantly, I achieved total viewing mastery of “The Expanse” for the x-th time. James Fucking Holden remains my spiritual guru for how to react to literally everything.
Now that I’m back in the land of the conscious and minimally productive, I’m ready to tackle the rest of the year. My goals are simple: keep my Chinese ‘learning’ from causing an international incident, finally figure out if the thermostat is a reliable weather forecasting tool, and maybe—just maybe—find a snack that isn’t primarily composed of salt and regret.
Oh, and of course, spring is almost here, with its irresistible invitation to stretch my legs and explore the myriad of walks I’ve been meaning to conquer. The longer days and the promise of blooming life are a potent mix, pulling me away from my desk and towards the fresh air and winding paths. There’s a specific, almost-forgotten trail along the riverbank that’s calling my name—a route I vowed to rediscover before the summer heat makes it unbearable.
Beyond the seasonal pull, however, there’s the truly staggering amount of sheer, mind-boggling fuckery our heads of state seem to be constantly entangled in. It’s an overwhelming torrent of half-truths, disastrous policies, and spectacular public failures that demands my attention. I feel an almost civic duty to try and make some semblance of sense out of their relentless, often catastrophic, fuckery. The deeper I delve into the political mire, the more convoluted and intentionally obfuscated the truth becomes, turning what should be a straightforward assessment into a Herculean task of deciphering international-grade nonsense. It’s a parallel universe of absurdity that requires careful, if often exasperated, analysis.
There’s a lot to catch up on.
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