vampirate

Two Thousand, Six was the Year of Greatest Net Gain for me. I went into it fresh off six months of relationship trouble and job difficulty, freshly dumped (after more than 2 and a half years) and effectively unemployed (see footnote 1), which is especially awful when you realize that Age Thirty is going to require some serious pushing from you in the near future. I was in the shitter, drunk more often than sober, and snorting as much morphine as I could acquire.

Entering Two Thousand, Seven, I am at the heretofore highest point in my life. I have a wonderful job, a satisfying band (see footnote 2), and last but first, the most wonderful woman I have ever had the good fortune to meet (see footnote 3), who now lives within driving distance instead of space-folding distance. Life rules, and it only looks as though it'll only improve.

So, yeah, Happy New Year, guys.

I apologize to those of you with whom I shared a "life sucks" bond for so long. I haven't abandoned you; I understand how you feel. I hope to be an encouraging example rather than a commiseratory comfort. DrStinkypants knows how I feel, I think.

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1. This is worse than being actually unemployed.
2. I'm long past giving a shit that it also has my ex in it.
3. Much less meat. Hurhurhur. But seriously, if some gods or other supernaturally potent entities had come to me and said, "okay, Dan, you've been so awesome that we're going to reward you with a woman of your own design. Here's a magical drafting pencil that will faithfully translate your deepest desires and wildest fantasies. Get to it," I would not have come up with anything so wonderful as she is. This is the only thing that consistently convinces me that I'm not dreaming.