2011 is the year of feeling, of deleting apathy and replacing it with these strange new emotions that are called compassion, empathy and desire. It’s the year of the emphatic “Yes!” instead of the grumbly “Maybe…”
2011 is the year of no longer sleeping with people you only like at night, of leaving relationships that exist solely within the four walls of your bedroom. This year, tell your fair-weather beau that “I gotta do me, babe. 2011 is all about me.” Then mumble softly to yourself, “And it’s also about me finding someone I could potentially love and you’re clearly not it so byeeeeee.”
2011 is the year of loving your mom and dad, of forgiving them for what they haven’t done and appreciating them for what they have. It’s the year of calling them and being like, “Even though you may have done irrevocable damage to me, I fucking. Love. You.” Because you do. You shared a body with your mother for nine months. Hello.
2011 is the year of live tweeting your nervous breakdown, of writing manic bizarre thoughts that will frighten yet ultimately intrigue your followers. Sample tweet: “I’ve always wanted to write a book about the 9/11 conspiracies because it’s really crazy and people deserve to know that we got fucked!” This will be followed by a tweet that reads, “I like hot pockets and quoting Nietzsche. I should actually just write a book called Hot Pockets, Nietzsche and Me!” FYI: Insanity is the greatest kind of currency on Twitter. Keep tweeting weird shit and you’ll get 100 new followers in two days.
2011 is the year of gluten’s inevitable demise. That insidious protein showed its true devilish colors last year when fragile picky eaters started to complain of an overall feeling of ickiness. “I just feel gross when I eat a lot of pizza and drink beer,” they said to you one cold winter day and you nodded because you understood exactly what they meant. Before you knew it though, they had gone to a holistic doctor and been diagnosed with a gluten allergy. “You mean you’re allergic to crappy processed foods? I can’t believe you have to eat healthy now,” you said over bites of kale at the Gluten-Free Diva restaurant in the Lower East Side. “I have to completely restructure my life. It’s just the worst…” Their voice trailed off right then because they realized they had had a bite of their roommate’s bagel that morning. Now it would be mere moments until the convulsions would start and those annoying tumors would develop on their forehead. Yes. 2011 is the year gluten finally dies a painful death.
2011 is the year of shocking discovery. It’s the year we’ll find out who Justin Bieber really is—a 20-year-old lesbian named Denise/Dennis who studies at Sarah Lawrence College. Pursuing superstardom under the guise of a 16-year-old boy was really just preparation for her senior thesis, which will be called Forever Young, Forever Hetero Patriarchal Social Construct Bullshit.
2011 is the year of 2012 hysteria, of slowly coming to the conclusion that we will all die next year via an apocalyptic prophecy made by those wacky Mayans. They wrote the following message in literal stone, “You’ll die in 2012. XOXO, The Mayanz.” The end of the world will be terribly sad so make sure you make the most of 2011. Dedicate the year to feeling all the time and loving your parents and stopping the pursuit of filler romances and turning to Twitter when things get dark and avoiding gluten at all costs. The Mayans would’ve wanted it this way. Do it for them if not for yourself.