After years of parading, dragging, and slithering my dysmorphia-ridden, creative carcass across the air-polluted eastern regions of France (Münster cheese aside), self-doubt took the best of me, and in 2025 I was too tired to insist. Frustration and snark overtook what little optimism and trust I had left in a system rigged against creative people while politely denying foreigners a chance to shine. So I seized any opportunity to reclaim a morsel of dignity: almost every “we’ve found a better fit, but please stay in touch” was followed by an “I am no longer interested, toodles.” A door closes — and I solder it shut. Rejection works both ways, you see. Some call it ego; I consider it a way to stay sane, even if it comes off as ingratitude.

In a pastiche of desperation and lack of foresight, 2025 brought a few big swings with marginal results: I moved to a village where it always smells of burnt plastic and where neighbors park in front of my gate — twenty minutes farther from Strasbourg, effectively killing any chance at a social life. I was a pizzaiolo for a day. All I earned was lower-back pain and a pile of amoeba-looking failures. I donned a maritime uniform in the sweltering heat of early June, sailing upstream on the Rhône, speaking Spanish from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. for a week. That nine-hour train ride to Martigues and those first few nights in a cabin alone were the darkest of the year. I finished the job but nearly broke my hypothetical knees on my way out the door.

Only two things landed. First, I was a wedding photographer for a weekend somewhere near Varese, Italy. My gear was subpar, burst mode only worked half the time, but I was present; it was my first assignment of the kind, and the client was delighted. Lastly, I became a food-tour guide in late July — and I’ve just survived Strasbourg’s Christmas-market season. The visits are fulfilling, the cheese ever funky, tourists dazzled, and Cosmo steals the show since he gets to join me.

And that’s where I shouldn’t have poked the ribs of any potential employers — at least not the retail kind. I had sworn I wouldn’t. But you know: an income. And I care about people; giving a fuck is part of my nature, even if that fucks me up. The team had been struggling for a while due to lack of staff, and I told myself I could do what they do. Turns out I can — but only at the price of any will to live I had left in me. The employer took the bait, and now I dread every minute I spend there. I fell inescapably ill just a week in, and after thinking I would end the year on mulled wine and tourist tips, I instead find myself inching across the apparent calm of downtown Strasbourg looking for any semblance of purpose. Comfort is the devil — but complacency is death.

This is when my “I want” song is supposed to kick in and point the way. I felt the least creative I have in years. I didn’t take many photographs — against Benito Antonio’s advice. I stopped my monthly illustrations before the steamy blur of summer; the sketchbook made it through the year mostly empty, my pencils unused. I got my first prescription glasses. My hairline is losing the battle against time. But I also spent a few days in Veneto, Lombardia, and outside Lausanne, lifting my spirits with their lack of Frenchness. I explored Avignon in under an hour, walked around Basel, Titisee, and Gengenbach in the rain. My sister got married and I couldn’t be there — breaking my heart. I reunited with friends after decades, watched Cosmo’s personality bloom again as he claimed the garden as his own, and gave Hollow Knight and Dark Souls another chance. I vibed in their mercilessness. I only watched two films this year and could not tell you what they were about.

I got a tarot reading in mid-December and the year ahead looks promising — revolutionary, even. It came from a place of love and concern; my cynical mind baffles at the hypnotic draw those cards have over me, in sharp contrast to a world that seems bleaker by the day. How dare they inspire me to feel hopeful — to give a fuck about myself, for a change. Like I can actually weigh in on what comes my way, when it’s much easier to be tossed around by fate. Comfort is the devil — and it looks inviting.

There’s no bow to tie around 2025, nor any major lesson to draw from it. A mostly meh year. I haven’t left the couch all afternoon, typing with one hand as Cosmo warms my feet; it’s too cold outside even for him, but he does need his walk. Tomorrow I’m back at that droning nine-to-five, but I’ve packed my sketchbook and a pencil, plus an extra battery if my camera needs it.