2009 was a great year to be alive. We came to accept our weaknesses, and weakly we came into accepting receptacles. Get it? That’s dirty, so dirty. But that’s what 2009 was about. And if 2009 taught us anything, it’s that ejaculation is something we do out of fear. Look, in 2009, we found out what failure was. When we got up in the morning: Failure. Failure haunted us as we came home at night, put our homburgs on the hatrack and our greatcoats in the press and headed for the kitchen where no dinner was waiting and no life had been made. So let’s give three cheers for 2010! This year, one hundred years ago, Fitzgerald was attending St. Paul Academy in “the middle west of large cities and country clubs,” putting the final touches on a childhood full of shame. Running, stretching, and then one fine morning—he beat on ceaselessly into his pants. Get it? Fitzgerald was a man on the make, even at 14, one hundred years ago. What did you do today? Nothing. Failure.
But seriously, in 2009, we were sad motherfucking sacks. Or just sacks. Sacs. But that didn’t stop us from ejaculating. In 2009, nothing moved us more than the sounds of our own pattering footsteps upon the marbled floors of memory, as we sank deeper into the past/our pants. But like T.S. Eliot said, memory is not incompatible with desire, so we forged ahead, crying meekly and lusting deeply after our forebears. But it wasn’t always like this. 2009 was a year that pushed us to the breaking point, showed us the limits. The early bird may have gotten the worm, but the needle still got lost in the haystack. In essence, all wasn’t quiet on the western front.
But in 2010, all that will change. We will move forward, together. We will debase ourselves, forever, in memory of the men we used to be. And the women we hope to become. But like Bertrand Russell said, sin is geographical. And 2009 was the Year of the Ox, which is consistent with the northern and southern hemispheres which is more confusing to understand than the Year of the Tiger in 2010, which meets in the southern hemisphere and will rise like the phoenix, out of darkness into light. Do you see what I’m saying? In 2010, we will breathe free. For a little while. Before flopping back into the murky sea with its broiling oil vats splattering all over our faces and ejaculating into our dreams.
Fact: In 2009, Epilogue celebrated its one year anniversary. An extravagant party was thrown to mark the occasion. Drinks were drunk, crudités were munched, bouquets were thrown and our guests from Notre Dame were hunched. The confetti coasted celestially towards the ground, as if by magic. We never really knew what synergy was till we saw the farrago of guests with their disparities of temper, complexion, hair color, hobby, horse, wits, vocabulary, age and creed mingle peaceably. We got on, and it was good. But then a mélange of middlemen squabbled with a hodgepodge of hemophiliacs from the North. A fire broke out in the kitchen and the flan overpowered the outdated ovens. We quickly crafted pirogues from the burnt-out bark and leftover tiki tables and made for higher ground, and a higher love, but that would not hold. We fell from above.
Next year’s Epilogue party can never match this year’s Epilogue party. For this year’s Epilogue party existed only in our minds. Next year’s party will be sponsored by Urban Outfitters, or so Corban says. “What kerfuffle!” you will ejaculate (when you hear the news and learn the truth).
Sowing the Seeds of Success
Rebecca Katherine Hirsch