I’m currently sitting on my as of yet unsold couch in a robe and sipping on a glass of scotch while waiting for the hot curlers in my hair to work their glorious mane magic. Just like the rest of you basic bitches I am assessing the year that has passed and I have concluded that 2015 was a motherfucker, but the kind of motherfucker that I’ve always liked.
Folks have always been telling me that as you get older, you give less fucks. I’ve gotten a little older, but it turns out that I still give a lot of fucks; I am a tried and true fuck giver every single fucking time. “Give less fucks,” is terrible advice to a hyper empath and person with Big Feels, as it typically fosters an inevitable shame spiral:
Oh god, I give too many fucks! And now I give a fuck about giving fucks! And now I give a fuck about giving a fuck about giving fucks! And then I find myself scratching my nails off the brick walls of this fuck-filled room I’ve sealed myself in and I’m coughing on the fucks so hard that I start to puke and suffocate on my own vomit and then I’m fucking dead (and without fingernails, which is gross).
What has gotten better, though, is knowing when to set the fucks aside.
This year was spent asking the questions:
Why does this fuck exist?
Why does this fuck seem particularly fuckish?
Is this fuck about me?
Is this fuck about something I can control?
Is this fuck about something I did that was cruel, or thoughtless, or unkind?
Is this fuck about standing up for myself?
Is this fuck made less fucked by speaking?
Is this fuck made less fucked by not speaking?
Is this fuck about what someone who doesn’t matter thinks?
Is this fuck about what someone who does matter thinks?
Does it matter if this fuck is about someone who does matter’s thoughts?
Is this fuck the kind of fuck that has some personal fucking historical origins, where something early on went amiss? Was this fuck born of a ripple of a stone thrown in my pool–not a fuck I asked for or sought out, but one that has implications that extend out to every single one of my sharp edges?
And while I wouldn’t say I give less fucks, I have gotten a whole hell of a lot better at figuring out which fucks require more work and which fucks are fucks to be left the fuck alone. Figuring out which fucks to fuck with is a pretty fucking magical thing.
I don’t know what I’ll be like in two years, or five years, or fifteen years, even though especially after this year I feel like I have a particularly strong hold on who I am, what I value, and what I want. Everything is subject to change, and I know it will. Maybe someday I will be the kind of person who doesn’t have any fucks, but as of right now, it doesn’t seem I can get rid of them–all I can do is figure out which fucks to set the fuck down.
I am a person who gives a lot of fucks. This is okay. As a result, I have this ridiculous network of brilliant, compassionate, lovely people who listen to me when I’m in the doldrums and tell me about their lives and come to me with their problems. I wouldn’t have them if I didn’t give so many goddamn fucks, because I wouldn’t invest in them in the way that I do.
I’m lucky. Even if they are sparing their fucks as they get older too, they continue to save one for me. They continue to give a fuck and show up for me, over and over again, even when I’m the fucking worst (and while I know you’re thinking, “You, Lizz? The fucking worst? I was actually wondering how to be such a graceful, easy-going, not-at-all-a-pain-in-the-goddamn-ass-with-a-foul-fucking-mouth capital-L Lady like YOU,” it’s true–I am often the fucking worst).
2015 started with everything broken. I broke too. I found myself surrounded by all these people with all of these fucking fucks for me, a total fuckweed, picking up the broken pieces and handing them back to me with a little bit of glue. “We’ve got you,” they said. “We’ve fucking got you.” And they did.
I won’t be giving up my fucks for good any time soon. I have all these fucks: bow-topped, tissue-wrapped fucks; jokes over cocktails fucks; I’m sorry they’re such a jackass fucks; do you want me to tell them they’re a jackass? fucks; silent hug fucks; gossip about people we used to know fucks, secret fucks; penpal fucks; hobbit gift fucks; you did a hard thing but I’m proud of you fucks; hard truth fucks; soft truth fucks; congratulations fucks; family drama fucks; real talk fucks; soft voices in the night fucks; observational insight fucks; white lie fucks; encouragement fucks; I’m sorry fucks; random adventure fucks; making your life a little easier in a small way fucks; you have to read this book fucks; I love you fucks; emergency coffee fucks; birthday fucks; let’s go do a fun thing fucks; when a good time goes sour fucks; spooning fucks; let me make you dinner fucks; reminding you to do self-care fucks; leaning my head on your shoulder fucks; let’s take a selfie fucks; no ok really let’s take one where I don’t look like an idiot fucks; swooping in to save the day fucks; here’s how I really feel fucks; thank you for listening fucks; thank you for being you fucks; thank you for somehow always making me feel better after we talk even though I’m not really sure why or even what we talked about fucks.
The list goes on.
There’s no better justification for keeping these fucking fucks around. My life would be a faded facsimile of itself without them.
To 2016: The year of all the right fucks in all the right places.