this year?

There aren't enough half empty bottles of whisky or tears in my riverhead or mostly-soft inanimate objects to beat the stuffing out of or perfectly unoriginal clichés to get me through this week that some metaphor reached into some metaphorical stanky toilet and pulled out with their bare stanky hands.

And there aren't enough depressingly motivational words from John Darnielle to help me get through this year if it kills me.

There's never enough of anything.

And everything will always happen the way you knew it would.

Or, in the end, we can hope. And I hope that I yank up my inner Brit and carry on like none of this matters, or that it ever did, or that it ever will.

But, lets be honest, there's never enough. And knowing me, there will never be enough ache to get from despair to numbness.

Ultimately, it is the worst tragedy and the most awesome bliss that I am always as right as I think I am. Every time. And I'm right about this year, and everything about it.

Donezo.