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Happy F*cking New Year! -- JoJoFromJerz
https://jojofromjerz.substack.com/p/happy-fucking-new-yearIt/s time to take this shit back.
It's the first day of 2026, and I had every last champagne-battered fantasy that I'd sit here and bleed out something delicate and devastating -- words so beautiful they'd make an angel choke on her own fucking harp string.
I imagined an essay that opened soft and slow, like a $300 bottle of Italian wine whose name sounds suspiciously like the Latin term for tax evasion. The kind you sniff and swirl and lie about confidently while nodding like you're tasting a millennium of popes, a hint of leather-bound regret, and a faint but unmistakable rebuke from Mastercard. Gentle prose. Earnest prose. Silk-pajama prose. The kind that whispers we endured under tragic violins while staring out a window like a glamorous widow wrapped in too many scarves and unresolved feelings.
That energy did not survive contact with reality.
2025 didn't arrive gently, didn't behave gently, and sure as hell didn't leave gently. It came in like a fistful of gravel in a pillowcase and spent twelve months swinging, rolled through like a busted clown car, and left all of us scraped, rattled, and surrounded by the kind of personal debris you usually only see after a gender-reveal explosion goes wrong. It wasn't a year so much as a prolonged mugging carried out by institutions wearing name badges and insisting this was all perfectly normal.
. . .
I imagined an essay that opened soft and slow, like a $300 bottle of Italian wine whose name sounds suspiciously like the Latin term for tax evasion. The kind you sniff and swirl and lie about confidently while nodding like you're tasting a millennium of popes, a hint of leather-bound regret, and a faint but unmistakable rebuke from Mastercard. Gentle prose. Earnest prose. Silk-pajama prose. The kind that whispers we endured under tragic violins while staring out a window like a glamorous widow wrapped in too many scarves and unresolved feelings.
That energy did not survive contact with reality.
2025 didn't arrive gently, didn't behave gently, and sure as hell didn't leave gently. It came in like a fistful of gravel in a pillowcase and spent twelve months swinging, rolled through like a busted clown car, and left all of us scraped, rattled, and surrounded by the kind of personal debris you usually only see after a gender-reveal explosion goes wrong. It wasn't a year so much as a prolonged mugging carried out by institutions wearing name badges and insisting this was all perfectly normal.
. . .
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