January 1, 2020
Brooklyn, New York
I was 26 years old
Though I could have offered to work on the 31st, I did not. And knowing the mood I promptly fell into, I really should have. The stimulation of interacting with the public surely would have bolstered my mood. Cause the day, at first, was swell. Austin posted a whole series of Stories, his year in review, with just about every other picture being of us. I myself posted a picture, of the two of us in North Carolina this summer, saying that many good things happened this year but that only one best thing. And I meant that. Little Skips was closed so I ended up journaling all day in my bedroom, perhaps spending more time alone than I should have. Cause I get to Austin’s that night, in anticipation of our New Year’s Eve plans, and I’m just miserable.
I chalked it up, at first, to some New Year’s blues. Which Austin understood, related to, even. He worked until 7:00 and Caroline was there too, popping open a bottle of champagne for him and Tommy at the end of their shift. And naturally, time got the best of him so he didn’t end up leaving until past eight. And I got pissy about that. And I can recognize how stupid that is. How quickly I too would have jumped at the chance to drink free champagne with Caroline, our favorite woman in New York City. And how awful that I allowed that to color not only our whole night together but our first New Years together. Officially together, at least. And so much of my mood was me feeling so stupidly insecure about the night ahead of us.
His friend Grayling was hosting a party at his place in Bed-Stuy. And though there ended up being several familiar and genuinely friendly faces there, I couldn’t help but think about Cam’s invitation to come out to Philly for his New Year’s party. Where there’d be friends who knew me and loved me and appreciated me. Blah blah blah. It was, logistically, impossible, what with Austin working the 31st. And besides, I’d brought him along to Koko’s with me last year—and platonically, no less. So it felt like his turn to call the party shots.
Our night was fine. But it could have been fun, had I not been searching for every opportunity I could to make things miserable for myself. Cause it should been just a blast. Drinking my VicKys, my vodka kombuchas in Austin’s bedroom as we were getting ready. Austin playing music videos on his laptop as if it were fall 2018 all over again. Time spent together before time spent with others before time to ourselves all over again. The best. And yet.
A no-shoes household at Grayling’s. Always a little jarring. Even my six years in New Hampshire didn’t make me into someone who enjoys walking around someone else’s home in just my socks. Grayling fetched us from his building’s front door and was totally sweet. Austin reminding me all the while that of course he and his girlfriend would remember me, what with the fact that me and Austin were among the very few friends of his who attended his band’s first show a couple months ago. Brought my bottle of vodka with us and knew I wouldn’t be bringing it back home. Very promptly made myself a too-strong drink and we settled into a spot in the kitchen.
It was probably just shy of 11, already. Lots of people were there. A nice apartment. High ceilings. A window in each and every room which, in and of itself, is New York City luxury. A whole, big spread of food, which I was so surprised and impressed by. Amazing what we get used to when we’re young, as far as parties go. Grayling is big into baking bread and I, thank God, probably ate an entire loaf myself. I was drinking too much. Trying to change a mood that wouldn’t budge. Austin went to make himself a martini, what with an available jar of olives on the counter. He later told me it tasted gross so he dumped it out and poured himself a glass of seltzer, instead. And that’s what he drank all night. He’s amazing.
Talked to this girl Emma more than anyone else. I’d met her at Travis’s birthday party a couple weeks earlier but, in the meantime, she found out I was verified on Twitter and that I’d been published in The New York Times. There was suddenly a lot more for us to talk about. But, in her defense, suddenly there was a lot more for us to talk about. Though, admittedly, the night was something of a blur and went by incredibly quickly. I drank too much. And perhaps “drank too much” for the first time in a long time in this specific way. It wasn’t that I just got too drunk, it was that I was consciously and purposefully drinking in some attempt to shift into the mood I so desperately wanted. Cause before I knew it, I was in the living room and counting down to midnight without any of the frantic sands-through-the-hourglass melancholic frenzy I, ordinarily, love so much and, in years past, have felt so present for. All of a sudden, it was 2020.
We kissed at midnight but I don’t think either of us were really there at that moment. We relocated into one of the bedrooms and sat on the bed, chatting with some people I can’t quite remember at this point. They had at least one cat and Austin’s allergies were bothering him so we left shortly thereafter, not long after midnight. I knocked a full drink over onto the floor of their bedroom and really made no effort to clean it up. I’m just mortified about that. Don’t have much recollection of our Uber ride home to Austin’s. No clue what I said or how I was interacting with him. If we interacted at all. It was all very Phantom Thread, when Woodcock finds Alma at the New Year’s party and it’s just the most devastating kind of silence between them. As far as New Year’s 2021 is concerned, things can only get better.
January 5, 2022
Brooklyn, New York
I am 28 years old
As the product of intergenerational Catholic superstition with a penchant for self-mythologizing, I’m of the school of thought that New Year’s Day dresses the set. That however you choose to spend January One is precisely what you should expect from the 300 and sixty-something days that follow. Take my first day of 2019. I trekked from Bushwick to the Upper East Side to indulge in a fanciful, Carrie Bradshavian day at the Met, so eager for all that this artful refinement would surely precipitate. The museum was closed. And while a cynic might jump to the conclusion that I’ve got my finger on the scale here, just take my word that 2019 was a year of New York City givething and New York City takething away. And while the seething sadness I felt as the clock struck midnight on the year 2020 makes for some easy dots to connect, I’ll resist the temptation. Instead—some hope. Because while December 31st can be fraught, I just love New Year’s Day. I love January, period. It’s my second favorite month of the year, just behind July, and I love them for almost all the same reasons. They drag by, indulgently. In one case, so much summer is left and, in another, there’s this stark new canvas. This blank expanse that, unlike any other time of year, can make aspiration feel realistic and perfection seem almost possible. I repeat: intergenerational Catholicism.
I make resolutions for myself every year but, much like the things I give up for Lent, they tend to lean universal. “No more self-doubt,” for embarrassing example. As a usually too-disciplined person, I know full well I’m capable of assigning and adhering to goals that would prove a little more concrete. And having spent the last year further blurring that line between my private and public selves, why stop now? What shame is left for me to lose? If I’m going to set intentions for myself at all, might as well do it in a public enough fashion to hold myself accountable. Fingers crossed.
And so, with all the explosive hope of a new year, my 22 resolutions for the year 2022. Here goes.
Read at least 36 books.
Put at least $150 from every paycheck directly into my savings.
Visit Shannon in Boise.
Visit Kyla in New Orleans. Hilary, too.
Visit my nephew in New Hampshire as often as I can.
Start regularly talking to mom on the phone again.
Stop feeling like a bad son.
See if Angela can do early morning sessions. If not: find a new therapist.
Go back to yoga. Twice a week, ideally, unless it gets too expensive.
Stay feeling blessed for living in Clinton Hill.
Walk aimlessly around neighborhoods in Manhattan, like I used to do when I first moved here.
Finish that second draft.
Learn what to do with a finished screenplay.
Make the movie.
Make sure Making Movies by Sidney Lumet is one of those 36 books I read.
Make room for more questions from visitors on my tours of the museum.
Don’t take silence from visitors personally.
Don’t take praise from visitors for granted.
Be a less fascistic roommate.
Buy pants that fit and flatter.
Love Austin the way I’d want to be loved.
And no more self-doubt.
Make 22 your number 1. Because you are the most interesting and fascinating and talented person that I have the privilege to know and adore❤️ And maybe number 20, you’ve great legs!!