Magicians and New Year's Resolutions

I'm faking it. I fucking hate January. I hate the cold. I hate the bitterness. I hate the emptiness. And I fucking hate New Year’s Resolutions. The ill-fated question of “what are your resolutions this year” lays on the cusp of every tongue and around even the darkest of corners.

Must I define my year already? And myself? People tell me that resolutions are beneficial. End of year, “me” is going to be real grateful I stuck to my goals in January. Someone might’ve mentioned growth is essential a few hundred times. To whom, really, though? Who is holding the measuring tape? Resolutions are absolutely confining. Why must I devote myself to goals set as the person I am right now in this minute? What if I decide I’m someone else tomorrow?

The Curse of the 18-Hour First Date

I'm the joke... I've been cursed. I've been damned—not with bad dates, but with good ones that never end. Like a rom-com stuck on repeat, my love life is an endless loop of 18-hour romances that begin with possibility and end in predictable silence. And before you whisper behind a block of blue light, “Girl, it’s called a one-night stand,” let me stop you right there. It’s really not. Really, not at all.

One-night stands are sexy and impromptu. It’s meeting a stranger in the backyard of Rocka Rolla one night and thinking to yourself, you don’t hate Murray Hill as much as you think you do. The 18-hour first date consists of shameful swiping and cringe-filled banter, with a “We’ve detected potentially inappropriate language. Do any of the messages above bother you?” pop-up eventually. The 18-hour first date has a lead-up of internet stalking and scenario conjuring. By the time the date rolls around, I’ve already invented him.