Fuck you.

Wait, wait, wait. That’s a little harsh. I’ll start again.

Go fuck yourself.

Wait, that’s not any better, is it?

The transition from one year to the next should be a time for burying hatchets, for taking the time to make peace with our own collective past. Just because it’s an arbitrary temporal dividing line, based on a randomly chosen point in our planet’s orbital track, doesn’t mean that there’s nothing of value to be found in marking it on our calendars. The need to look back and take stock of what we’ve been through is a very human one. What journey isn’t enriched by a brief stop to turn around and see where we’ve been?

At this time last year, we were still being served by a president who, when asked about our nation’s problems, responded with a hale and hearty “I dunno.” At least now there’s a man in charge who boldly decided to, uh, give a bunch of banks billions of dollars that they resolutely decided to not loan to the people they were supposed to be helping. And that’s something, right?

But, you know what, 2009? You were absolutely useless.

Even with all the unemployment and economic dread, you failed even to produce any great, anxious art. Back in the 80′s, under Reaganomics and Thatcherism, we at least had the existential nausea of post-punk (the soundtrack of nuclear annihilation) and the social reportage of hip-hop. Blame the fragmentation of the media if you want to (now everybody’s favorite band is no further away than a friend of a friend’s Facebook account), but as ever I detect something more sinister afoot. I can’t quite put my finger on it right now.

Or maybe I can. Making art from nothing but anxiety and neurosis is the job of the young, the twenty-somethings who are already discovering that making the transition from teenhood to adulthood is basically a process where the world sneaks up and kicks their own feet out from under them. The rage that comes from realizing that they’re expected to spend the rest of their lives eating dirt, is a vital component of youthful creativity.

But, I’m getting off the subject, 2009. The subject, in this case, is how you can kiss our broke, out-on-our-ass asses. I know that this had not been a period completely devoid of joy–I’m sure a lot of people got married, or had babies, for instance. But this will be a year not fondly looked back upon, even for all that. “Oh, 2009,” they’ll say. “What a terrible, terrible year.”

And that’s what you are, 2009. A terrible, terrible year.

And now? Well, that’s all you’ll ever be.