Elizabeth Gomez: 2014 Go Fuck Yourself

Dear 2014,

I’ll be honest, we had a good time… at first. You were like a soured short term relationship. Like the time I was working at that mall in Santa Anita and I started dating Carlos from Orange Julius. At first, it was all the Orange Julius I could have ever wanted. I drank that turbid frosty baby aspirin flavored beverage with the vigor of a shoat refusing to be weaned; glued to the teat of its mother as if separated, I would perish. It was glorious, until it stopped.

Without warning, Carlos became as cold as a Superberry Acai Smoothie; impenetrable and icy. There was no closure, no final goodbye, not even the courtesy of sitting me down in the those lightweight aluminium chairs in front of Panda Express to hear the words, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Instead, days after we stopped talking I saw him hanging at the Original Cookie, with some blondie surfer chick who I’m sure couldn’t read. Metaphorically speaking, he left me holding a wax coated cup containing only the sticky circular residue of a drink gone too fast.

Yes, 2014, that was you. Charming and full of so many wonderful things and then BAM! You slapped me down like Solange Knowles did to Jay Z; trapped in an elevator with no warning. Like the last episode of Serial, you were disappointing and left me wondering why I bothered even trying. Your constant reminder that time is, indeed, a flat circle, made me think of only one thing… go fuck yourself, 2014.

I’ll take a moment to be fair, I had a lucky run for the last few years. Things have been on the upswing and I felt fearless. There are times that an occasional reality check is necessary. My advice to you, 2014, would be to spread out the agony a bit. I think a death in the family is enough of a reminder that you’ve got to live life to the fullest, but adding being forced out of your home was a little too far, even for you, 2014. You’re right, at least I didn’t get diagnosed with breast cancer, but we really don’t know that yet, do we? Because I still haven’t received my test results and you have the rest of today, you tricky disgusting bastard.

The one thing you have left me with is an incredible sense of glee and satisfaction that in less than 12 hours, you will be gone forever and I will outlive you. Also, despite all your efforts, I now own a house, which is exciting. Unless, of course, 2015 forces me into unemployment; then I will end up jobless and carrying an incredible debt which will sink me into a deep dark depression where I don’t wash my hair and cry everyday surviving only on Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and cases of Zima that I bought from a liquor warehouse reduction sale while my husband grows to resent me so much he leaves me for his assistant (his cat) forcing me into homelessness and eating out of trash cans until I die in an alley in dirty underwear with no shoes on my severely calloused feet.

That being said, I do have hope, 2015! I DO! I believe that I will recover from the pains of the past. I believe that great things will happen for those I love and even those I don’t. I believe that I will be able to return the love and support of people who have supported me in 2014 when they need it. I believe that there is always hope that all of us can become better human beings and I’m looking forward to it. So, fuck you, 2014, and come here, 2015, so I can wrap my arms around you so hard.

– Elizabeth

PS: By the way 2014, fuck you for taking away The Colbert Report.


  1. Zima references make me feel old. At least shitty years make for funny year end blog posts. Hopefully your 2015 will be more of a wheat grass shot than a sugary smoothy.

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