2012 - what a year.

For some of us, it was a year of dreams fulfilled, questions answered and our way, at long last, found.

For some of us, it was a year of loss, sadness and longing for what we once had.

For all of us, it was a year in which we learned, loved, and grew.

What did 2012 mean to you?

Look how far we’ve come.

For some reason, that phrase makes me think of those Virginia Slims ads from the 80s. You know the ones: “You've come a long way, baby!” Then, I think of those ads for Sterling Cigarettes that said shit like “Bang & Olufsen is just a stereo” (What does that even mean?!) or some shit like that, but all of that is irrelevant.

I have now traumatized myself with fresh memories that I should probably go back and address in my letter to my younger self. The 80s were truly a decade that keeps on giving, huh?

Why couldn't the 80s have given us something besides permanent scars? I mean, I could try to make the argument that the 80s gave us skinny jeans, but “skinny jeans” is just another phrase that means “pants,” and we all know the truth about pants, now, don’t we?

It's been a minute since Aunt Becky decided we had to get the Band Back Together.

Look how far we've come.

A couple of years ago, Aunt Becky couldn't find her whore pants. She cleaned out the closet and found some jewelry and an expired coupon for pants, but there were no whore pants. She asked the whole internet if anyone had seen her pants. Apparently, the answer is “no” because she still hasn't found her pants (And I didn't find her pants when I cleaned out my closet either.), but she's come a long way.

We, The Band, have declared that pants are bullshit and purple is a flavor, dammit. That's progress.

A couple of years ago, I was sitting at a spiritual 12-step retreat, clinging to my Blackberry and its one bar of shit-tastic Edge network signal for dear life. It was my only link to the real world outside of that hellhole of a campground I was sitting in.

I call that fucking hellhole “Death Camp” to this day.

What else can I call a place that had water that smelled worse than the shits you get after a night of too much tequila and wasn't safe to shower in? We won’t even talk about the fact that I dislocated my shoulder falling off the porch of that rotten little cabin, because that's not as scary as water you can't use to brush your teeth.

I remember running to my room to type up the email that became my first post; I was still struggling with the fact that I actually had to FEEL my fucking feelers now that I wasn't using dope.

Here I am today, living in the magic bus on the other side of the lake from Death Camp, struggling with the fact that I actually have to feel my fucking feelers now that I'm not using dope. That's OK, though, because we, The Band, have declared that feelers are bullshit, and we just sling snot together when one of us has to feel something.

While it sounds like not much has changed, it really has.

We have gotten the Band Back Together. We, The Band, have declared that…

Pants are bullshit.

Purple is a flavor.

Feelers are bullshit.

Stigmas are bullshit.

We are none of us alone. We are all connected.