
Last night, I enjoyed cocktails and catfish fingers at Brooklyn’s Vodou Bar with my buddy Dr. Jennifer. We talked about life and how things hadn’t been going especially well for us the past few months.
“2011 has been my worst year,” I said to Dr. Jennifer. She replied that it hadn’t been her worst year, but it had been a disappointment.
“If there was a lesson to be learned in 2011 and I missed it, oh well,” she said, then followed up with, “And I’m not going to say 2012 is going to be my year. That’s just bullshit.”
Normally, I would have agreed with her. It always pissed me off when people would make the proclamation that the upcoming new year was going to be “their year.” I never understood what the fuck that meant. I mean, yeah, I get it, a new year, a new beginning, blah blah, whatever. A new beginning can happen anytime. A new beginning can start the moment you finish reading this post.
But last night, I felt differently. It’s not bullshit, I thought. 2012 is going to be my year, goddamn.
And Guestlist is the reason I feel this way. For those of you still in the dark, Guestlist is my debut novel, which releases in February. February of 2012.
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