Looking back over this past year, things seem a little unreal, like they happened to someone else. My wife and I both turned 40: my near-vision started to blur a little, I cut a lot of my hair off and found it was, as I suspected, thinning. I continue to forget things people say to me seconds after they say them. Nothing seems real. I'm not interested. I've been waiting for something, but I don't know what it is. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were in 2019. Maybe something else entirely. I've spent a lot of days in the forest searching for something. Jokes about death seem somehow less funny, but at the same time less serious. Even writing this, I wonder how deeply I feel any of the preceding. Everything sort of scratches the surface. I yell at strangers in traffic, but I'm not really mad. I yell at my kids for doing dumb things, but I guess I sort of get it. I curse all the time. But casually. I say all of this, not as a way of complaining, but maybe as a way of accepting my gradual slide into decrepitude. Speaking of which, here's some famous people that died this year:
Sidney Poitier
Bob Saget
Meatloaf
Louie Anderson
Mark Lanagan
William Hurt
Taylor Hawkins
Gilbert Gottfried
Naomi Judd
Ray Liotta
James Caan
