Nations, in staggered unison, hold celebrations of the cyclical nature of the Gregorian calendar.

You still a bitch.

Sometimes, I choose to write in the vernacular. Most of the time, I got no time for contractions.

You still the same bitch from last year.

You think hearing the clock strike midnight like Cinderella or seeing the proverbial ball drop at the ball is a chief harbinger of a personal metamorphosis?

Time is a construct. Cinderella is a fairy tale. Love is a chemical reaction. And you still a bitch.

Four days into the new year, you’ll flip back to the old you.

Four days aka 96 hours aka 5,760 minutes aka 345,600 seconds from now you’ll be rotten. Like an avocado. So whatever you gotta tell yourself to feel good in the morning, to get to that job you hate, to trade in those dreams you had to be a cog in the wheel, do it.

Wash, rinse, repeat, motherfucker. This is life.

You never stood a chance. It was an inside job. You got sold out.

This is hardcore truth, homie. You don’t like what I’m saying? Fine. That’s your prerogative. You can do what you want to do.

In the pantheon of cowards, chickenshits, invertebrates, fraidy-cats, yellow bellies, and white livers, you rank among the best of the worst. Lauded and lionized. You command kingdoms with your outstretched index finger like Michelangelo’s interpretation of the supreme deity or Spielberg’s take on homesick extraterrestrials. You like flowery language about yourself because it makes you forget the barrenness of your fertile mediocrity. I’m here to plant a flag in your self-made illusion and declare you the property of the sovereign nation of Ustillabitchistan.

So call your senator, send in a complaint, drop that card in the suggestion box, find a shoulder to cry on. Do what you gotta do. Whatever.

But you

still

a

bitch.