Je Ne Regrette Rien

Regrets? Indeed. I've been reminded that it's that time of year again, and whilst everyone else in the world of so-called journalism is busy compiling lists of "The Best of 2004" and "The Worst of 2004" and "Predictions for 2005," I am to extrapolate upon my personal regrets, at tremendous length, if need be. It's become something of a New Year's tradition 'round these parts--looking back, draped in anguish. Perhaps you've noticed? Of course.

But I've said it before and I'll say it before again: Regret strikes me as a time-wasteful, cry-babyish sort of indulgence--a pastime of which I'm certain neither God nor my Life Coach would ever approve. And I'm a sucky apologist anyhow: insincere and smug. It's insufferable. Ask anyone.

Regrets? A wistful waste of one's already beleaguered attention span. Regret? The root of all weevils. Regret? The vulgar maraschino cherry atop the turd in life's proverbial punchbowl. Like seppuku and vaginal sex, one should only attempt to engage in regret in extreme circumstances, and under the care of a qualified physician. Grammatically speaking, regret is for those who've failed to gret correctly in the first place. And I gret just dandy, should the urge to gret suddenly take me, thanks. Ask anyone.

So then, regret. I'm not for it. But even so, it won't pain me one bit to share that there is--Presidentially speaking--quite possibly one enormous and pendulous woe hanging in my otherwise compulsively happy noggin like the smoggy sunset on The Day Democracy Died. I very much seem to regret, in an admirably proactive sort of way, the next four fucking years. But I'm also fairly certain that you feel exactly the same way, so it's barely worth mentioning--and too much proactive regret may lead one dangerously close to dread, which is another matter entirely, and one I enjoy indulging perhaps even less that regret itself. Ask, again, anyone.

And of course I didn't get to fuck Colin Farrell, nor Jimmy Fallon, nor that excessively inked Travis person from Blink 182 or whatever, nor delicious and delightful Hal Sparks--my truest and secretest crushes ever. I guess that rather sucked. But. The realm of starfucking is one I specifically prefer to remain forward-focused, anyway. There is always, after all, tomorrow. (Are you listening Hal, you smiley little fuck muffin? Of course you are.)

And finally, I guess I can't deny what most everyone has already probably realized: I accidentally erased each and every bit of star-sighty news from the last 14 days, leaving me, clearly, with not a damn thing in the world to report. Hardly my most glorious moment. Ask anyone.