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2025 Can Get in the Bin
a week ago
General
Okay so. Remember how I said this year could fuck off. Well. Here I am, doubling down, because if 2025 wants to throw hands I’m right here, shirt off, hair tied up, Vaseline on, ready to suplex it into a bin fire. Let’s take the scenic route through this hellscape, because if I’m going to melt down, we’re doing it in style.
So let’s begin with January. New Year. New Me. New Trauma. Literally days into the year, one of my best friends—my soft‑voiced chaos gremlin, my emotional support cryptid—kills himself over Christmas. And how does the news reach me? Through a city Trans Pride co‑manager who blurts it out with the tact of a malfunctioning foghorn. No preparation. No warning. No message to friends or family first. No… anything. Just “Oh btw he’s dead” dropped like a wet lasagne onto a stone floor. I swear half the fucking room got the news before I did, and I’m supposedly one of the managers. Professionalism? No. Compassion? Apparently optional.
Fast‑forward to July, when another co‑manager’s partner decides to flash their genitals at me like it’s the world’s worst show‑and‑tell. And when I report it? The co‑manager decides to protect her partner by discrediting me instead. Me. The victim. In a fucking trans organization that does children’s outreach. Like babes what are you doing. What are we doing. Why is YOUR solution “Let me smear Alison for noticing the sexual harasser”? The mental gymnastics would qualify for the Olympics if they weren’t morally repulsive. So I leave. I leave because my sanity said “girl. walk.” Of course she immediately makes it her side quest to spread rumours about me. Because accountability is scary but character assassination is apparently fun.
Meanwhile I’m bleeding friends. Grieving. Spiraling. Pretending I’m fine while my nervous system is doing the Windows XP shutdown noise.
And then—because life enjoys a theme—my tabletop RPG club descends into what I can only describe as administrative goth clown chaos. I appoint a volunteer moderator last year thinking “ah yes, enthusiasm, energy, love to see it.” No. WRONG. Turns out I hired the final boss of narcissistic micromanagers. This person bans people they had unsuccessful dates with, rewrites club rules behind my back, argues with every instruction like it’s debate club, and generally behaves as if being a volunteer gives them the divine right to act like a 2010s Tumblr tyrant with admin powers.
Then they have a messy breakup with their partner—also a volunteer—and suddenly I’m running a roleplaying club AND hosting a silent war between two exes who use Discord moderation tools like they’re throwing plates at each other. Eventually I tell them “don’t delete your ex’s posts.” Which triggers a seven‑paragraph meltdown that honestly should be in a museum. The Louvre deserves it. I seek advice from other community organisers because this is above my paygrade and also my will to live, and THAT becomes their “last straw.” They rage‑quit, accuse me of betrayal, then leave the club entirely because I dared replace them with someone competent.
Silver lining? Sometimes the trash takes itself out. But god, the smell beforehand.
Now let’s talk house buying. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Eleven months of my solicitor communicating exclusively in the ancient language of “we’re chasing,” a phrase that at this point should honestly be classified as psychological warfare. Every time we ask for an update they just summon the same stock response like it’s a Pokémon move. Mortgage agents demanding the same paperwork eight times like they’re trying to summon a demon made of PDFs. Every person involved gets replaced every two months and nobody seems to tell the next person what the fuck is happening. The entire process feels like trying to perform CPR on a glacier.
Oh, and publishing? Hilarious. My previous publisher drops my series because of “lower than expected sales” even though my books outperform half their catalogue AND I’ve been fighting them about the frankly heinous cover they slapped on book one. They also demanded I stop giving Patreon backers early chapters which… absolutely not. So now I’m re‑releasing a series while also trying to figure out what my Patreon is even for anymore. It’s like a creative identity crisis dressed up as admin.
And through all this, people wonder why I’m constantly vibrating like a microwave fork.
So yeah. That’s my year. A corpse‑strewn battlefield of incompetence, grief, assholes, admin illusions, boundary‑bulldozing queers, the death of my patience, AND the death of my will to ever trust a solicitor again.
2025 can pack its bags, call a cab, and fuck off into a ravine. I’m done. Done like the overcooked chicken at a cheap buffet. Done like a Windows update stuck at 3 percent. Done like a bisexual in a heterosexual marriage. DONE.
If 2026 doesn’t come correct I’m fighting it in the street.
So let’s begin with January. New Year. New Me. New Trauma. Literally days into the year, one of my best friends—my soft‑voiced chaos gremlin, my emotional support cryptid—kills himself over Christmas. And how does the news reach me? Through a city Trans Pride co‑manager who blurts it out with the tact of a malfunctioning foghorn. No preparation. No warning. No message to friends or family first. No… anything. Just “Oh btw he’s dead” dropped like a wet lasagne onto a stone floor. I swear half the fucking room got the news before I did, and I’m supposedly one of the managers. Professionalism? No. Compassion? Apparently optional.
Fast‑forward to July, when another co‑manager’s partner decides to flash their genitals at me like it’s the world’s worst show‑and‑tell. And when I report it? The co‑manager decides to protect her partner by discrediting me instead. Me. The victim. In a fucking trans organization that does children’s outreach. Like babes what are you doing. What are we doing. Why is YOUR solution “Let me smear Alison for noticing the sexual harasser”? The mental gymnastics would qualify for the Olympics if they weren’t morally repulsive. So I leave. I leave because my sanity said “girl. walk.” Of course she immediately makes it her side quest to spread rumours about me. Because accountability is scary but character assassination is apparently fun.
Meanwhile I’m bleeding friends. Grieving. Spiraling. Pretending I’m fine while my nervous system is doing the Windows XP shutdown noise.
And then—because life enjoys a theme—my tabletop RPG club descends into what I can only describe as administrative goth clown chaos. I appoint a volunteer moderator last year thinking “ah yes, enthusiasm, energy, love to see it.” No. WRONG. Turns out I hired the final boss of narcissistic micromanagers. This person bans people they had unsuccessful dates with, rewrites club rules behind my back, argues with every instruction like it’s debate club, and generally behaves as if being a volunteer gives them the divine right to act like a 2010s Tumblr tyrant with admin powers.
Then they have a messy breakup with their partner—also a volunteer—and suddenly I’m running a roleplaying club AND hosting a silent war between two exes who use Discord moderation tools like they’re throwing plates at each other. Eventually I tell them “don’t delete your ex’s posts.” Which triggers a seven‑paragraph meltdown that honestly should be in a museum. The Louvre deserves it. I seek advice from other community organisers because this is above my paygrade and also my will to live, and THAT becomes their “last straw.” They rage‑quit, accuse me of betrayal, then leave the club entirely because I dared replace them with someone competent.
Silver lining? Sometimes the trash takes itself out. But god, the smell beforehand.
Now let’s talk house buying. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Eleven months of my solicitor communicating exclusively in the ancient language of “we’re chasing,” a phrase that at this point should honestly be classified as psychological warfare. Every time we ask for an update they just summon the same stock response like it’s a Pokémon move. Mortgage agents demanding the same paperwork eight times like they’re trying to summon a demon made of PDFs. Every person involved gets replaced every two months and nobody seems to tell the next person what the fuck is happening. The entire process feels like trying to perform CPR on a glacier.
Oh, and publishing? Hilarious. My previous publisher drops my series because of “lower than expected sales” even though my books outperform half their catalogue AND I’ve been fighting them about the frankly heinous cover they slapped on book one. They also demanded I stop giving Patreon backers early chapters which… absolutely not. So now I’m re‑releasing a series while also trying to figure out what my Patreon is even for anymore. It’s like a creative identity crisis dressed up as admin.
And through all this, people wonder why I’m constantly vibrating like a microwave fork.
So yeah. That’s my year. A corpse‑strewn battlefield of incompetence, grief, assholes, admin illusions, boundary‑bulldozing queers, the death of my patience, AND the death of my will to ever trust a solicitor again.
2025 can pack its bags, call a cab, and fuck off into a ravine. I’m done. Done like the overcooked chicken at a cheap buffet. Done like a Windows update stuck at 3 percent. Done like a bisexual in a heterosexual marriage. DONE.
If 2026 doesn’t come correct I’m fighting it in the street.
Here's to 2026 being better because if it isn't I'm gonna Johnny Silverhand something.