Look into 2013’s eyes as it dies. Watch the life leave it. Feel nothing.
With a sad smile, 2013 looks at you and sorrowfully says: “I will always remember when I was The Year.”
No you will not because you are dead.
I’ll just leave this here.
My friend went home for the Holidays and asked me to keep an eye on his apartment and car. For anyone else, this would’ve been a small, barely relevant blip on their responsibility-radar, but for me it was so much more. It was the task that would destroy me. It was… the final duty.
It started off innocuously enough when I somehow broke the key to his apartment. I don’t know how. It was an electronic key and somehow the simple act of being near me drained it of its magic electronic juices, and when I swiped it on his door, the little green light blinked nothing at me. I had to go talk to The Front Desk, and when they asked me totally reasonable questions (“If the key doesn’t work, how did you even get into the building?” “I snuck in because complex acts of burglary are for some reason less intimidating to me than basic human interactions.”), I tended to overcomplicate the matter. But, somehow, I got in, and I got his car keys.
I broke those too. They were also electronic. I dunno how. Since there was no analog key, the breaking of those keys basically bricked my friend’s BMW until he called Roadside assistance to break into his own car while I watched. Then I opened the door and found that I had somehow also broken his cupholder — on the passenger side. I have no idea, but I know it worked a couple days ago, and the only person I’d driven around was my brother (I had to take him to the airport) and I hadn’t seen him use it.
At this point, I was done. “You’re not allowed to use Austin’s shit anymore, Sarge, because you’re an idiot,” I told myself. I drove his car back to his apartment and very, very carefully slid it into the roughly 6-inch-wide assigned parking spot. Then I rode the elevator up to his apartment to drop off his car keys, ending my quest forever — only to find that I had melted his computer monitor.
Allow me to explain. Where I grew up, you left a light on when you left your home, because burglars are frightened of light. Sometimes you leave a radio on too, though if you do that you have to make sure it’s tuned to something other than the Diane Rehm show, otherwise burglars will say “let’s go anyway — this woman sounds like she could die at literally any moment.” Where my friend grew up, they appear to have a different philosophy: build death rays, and put them on your desk, disguised as lamps.
Don’t ask me to house sit, internet. I will break your shit. Also, don’t elect me president.