January 1st, 2026 - FTNY, Year Eight in Review 2025
Dear TNY,
Here we are again. The official FTNY Year in Review. This was, holy fuck, year eight.
Can you even believe it? Eight years. This is one of the most consistent things in my life. I have written over 400 letters at this point. Letters that have done absolutely nothing to change anything. I’d like to say that’s an act of defiance. But today it feels more like insanity.
But, guys, I don’t have the will to write great letters to you anymore. To be funny. To be smart. To analyze. Hell, I never had the expertise to do it in the first place. But here’s my lame attempt:
The stories this year were mostly shit. I did finish most of them, but who cares.
The wheels have fucking come off me. I don’t know how to be, anymore. So I’ll try to make this quick.
I wrote some truly astonishing letters in January of 2025. Wildy ranging topics and pure beauty/chaos. I’m really proud of a lot of that writing, especially knowing that I was going through such a tough time.
Also, TNY, you guys fucked the up the difference between “insure” and “ensure”. TWICE. That’s comical. What a prestigious magazine you are!
Another new thing that happened this year is that I lied to this project for the first time. Starting in February and ending around June. I lied, or rather…omitted, to try save something. It didn’t work. But what I learned from that is there is no right way to do it. It’s only wrong. Well, there was one post way back in 2023 that she liked. Because she looked good in it. And that makes sense. She’s a human. Vulnerable like the rest of us. I left her out to try to preserve the love that I had hoped was growing again. That things were afoot. Keep her off the pages, you know? So that I didn’t fuck stuff up. But that didn’t work, as stated. She got mad she wasn’t on the pages, except for two times, and one time I didn’t even use “special lady” instead opting for just “lady”. The truth is I don’t know the right move because I’m not sure there is one. Through no fault of hers, for sure. Later, after the breakup, I did put her on the pages and that did not go well. It comes down the question that it always has come to here at FTNY: The paper always listens when the people I want to talk to don’t. I mean, that’s how this project started. I was so upset with your fiction that I tried to talk to you about it. That didn’t work either. And I’m sitting at the sporty end of a long barrel, feeling like being so adamant that this endeavor was important has been a misconception. But then again, the talking sometimes helps me. So should I talk to the paper or just swallow it? I don’t know the answer even now.
This year I was late more than any other year. But, this was because I handed myself over to friends and family for a good bit of this year and I was respecting these people and paying attention to them and their time. I just didn’t feel like coming here and writing you guys when I was so desperate to stay alive. And I truly mean that this year. I thought last year was bad, but I had hope. And my physical health wasn’t terrible. This year? Now? Things are failing inside. I get the occasional gout. My sciatica is so bad I limp. I have upper cheek acne. And I go through bouts of gagging, which could be any or all of the following: Withdrawal, pancreatitis, anxiety, or some other gut shit. I’m currently at a hotel bar outside of Boston for a wedding. I’m drinking, lightly, to maintain the status quo so I don’t ruin his wedding. Also hoping to avoid organ failure. I’m scared, actually. And I have a plan now, to try rehab. February is the timeframe. I need to finish this trip and respect these people I have made plans with and then see how badly I’ve fucked myself.
Unless there are any saviors out there? Any takers?
Kidding.
But back to talking to the paper, I’d love to tell this to her. Have her hold my hand and say she’s proud of me. That she wants to support me through this. Help me succeed. But like a fog in late morning, that shit has dissipated. My oldest son calls every day now. I think he’s worried and has no idea how to help. And that makes me sad. I apologized for how I am these days. And he just keeps saying I’m a good dad and that I’m okay. My only hope is that if he ever gets this sad, I can set this example of being honest about it so that maybe he’ll have an easier time of it. See? See what I’m telling you now, paper? Thank you for listening.
I was happy this year, in the letters, from around February to June. Why? She came back. Say what you want about codependence and be as negative as you want. I was actually fucking happy. I’ve said this about Ben in the past, but it bears repeating here: His happiness was never dependent on others, he contained so much happiness; his happiness suffered when, instead of swimming beautifully, it felt like people were pushing his head underwater; make no mistake, he knew how to swim. But yeah, that kind of happiness. And that happiness showed in the letters she wasn’t in, because I was busy leading the part of my life that she was in. Yeah, sure, part of that has to do with her, but mainly it’s just that I thought I was going to get to go home again. And I did, for a little bit at least. But we need to separate her from what actually got me here. Because she played a role, for sure. But what really happened was I twisted my life up so bad that I no longer contained the bravery to fix it on my own. Or capability. And I did a lot of that by myself. Other people did it to me. And so much of it was no one’s fault. But my brain told a story, and that story was that she was going to help me get home. Is that a true story? I don’t know what’s true or not anymore. I told myself a story and I’m a fucking great storyteller. But here’s a story I’ll tell you now. I always knew, with all the others, that they weren’t the one. Except A, because I was too young to understand, but I knew when I knew, no matter how bad I wanted to unfuck things. But the rest? I knew C wasn’t the one when I went to visit her in Seattle the first time. It’s odd to say, but I saw this little hump on the back of her neck and I knew right then. Not that the hump was weird or looked funny or was anything other than beautiful. It just triggered a thought. And yet, I tried anyway. And for years, I found other little things with everyone else too. S, walking too slowly. R2, never leaving her town. A2, the shape of her nostrils. K…K…honestly, that had to do with a certain kind of love that is like squeezing a puppy so hard because you love it so much that you kill it (kinda like I do). R, to be honest there was nothing wrong with R, I just had to leave for my boys, so say what you want about that; I also didn’t stay, so there’s that. Either way, there were these tiny little beautiful details that said, “This person is astonishingly lovely but I don’t think they are it for me.” And that trigger still works now as it has happened after her. There’s only ever been one glaring exception, and that’s her, even in the face of so much contradictory behavior, there were and are no triggers. So, yeah, I told myself a story. And as far as this wet computer is concerned it’s true.
She’s absolutely perfect. Not in the way that an idea is before you try to create it. But, more like wooden boats, no real line as it was when you imagined it. Pencil marks left behind during the creation. Errors made along the way, an unfair line here, a fastener drilled too deeply there, a scuff from an overzealous scraping. The type of perfect that somewhere on the way makes you forget the idea altogether, because the thing in front of you that was made how it was supposed to be made is closer to the truth than any artificial perfection. Like children, really. Who at some point surpass the idea of having kids and grow up to be the most fascinating and lovely people you’ll ever meet. So it’s that kind of perfection I’m speaking of, and in that way she is easily the most beautiful person, place, or thing I have ever seen. Like being inside a Wyeth painting.
I get told I need to tell myself a new story. I may. But like all things human, if you could just see it through my experience you’d understand. It’s like God made a gift for me, and he made it complicated enough that I would actually be interested in stopping everything else to try to figure it out.
Speaking of God, I heard something the other day that really stuck with me. God is the name of the blanket we throw over the mystery to give it shape. So sub “God” out with whatever you want. It’s a blanket covering the thing we all know is there but can’t articulate. And maybe if we get lucky enough, that blanket is more like a snuggie and we can wrap ourselves in it from time to time and be less alone in this terribly beautiful existence.
What I’m trying to say is that she makes my life better. She makes me happier. Until she doesn’t, which is generally in the punitive way she discards me like unwanted trash. And if you thought last year was bad, this is 10x that. And in case you think this is romantic or drama for drama sake, ask yourself: Do I sound like I’m having fun? Do I sound like I would make these choices willingly? Do I sound like I am fucking happy with this as a direction for my existence?
Back to the FTNY project. I switched to photographs this year instead of drawings. Why? Laziness. Much like being late, I just couldn’t find the steam to keep doing this anymore. I like some of the photos, but most are just meh. I’m meh. My life is meh. Last night I couldn’t sleep until 4am, and I laid there and listened the mice in the room canvas the area for whatever the hell they were looking for, me, beating myself off every 20 minutes so that I could feel something that even approached love, chemically, and then gagged a bunch in the off minutes between fap sessions. It's all so stupid. It’s all so fucking stupid.
And there you go, paper, listening again.
What I learned from reading all of this year’s letters again, and the Year in Review of 2024, is that this project has become one big love letter. And I know everyone is tired of hearing about it. But, speaking of Wyeth (also, I was at her dad’s house this week and he has a tiny little copy of Christina’s World on this kitchen table; I asked him if he had seen the real one, in the MOMA, and he had not, lives that close and hasn’t been, so I regaled him with my story of that summer with the boys, 2021, and I was not making good eye contact but when I did I could see the look on his face, one I have seen so often, which is when people believe you are crazy), Wyeth painted Helga between 240-268 times. Sometimes this is who we are as artists. I write what’s in my heart. And she owns the space. And yeah, it’s fucking crazy. And lonely. And so much of it is terrible.
But, it’s also more wonderful that you can imagine. For me, I get to do all of this for one small, Shetland pony with cracked heels; caramel hair with silver streaks; a booty for dayz; the optimism of a gambling addict; the smile of little kid and the grubby little feet to match; a fire-like intelligence; a vulnerability so secret and dark that we don’t even get to talk about how much of it I see and how thick and fat her defense mechanisms are to keep it safe; the competitiveness of a premier league footballer; an open-mouthed laugh that reminds me of Ben; unrivaled whimsy, both physical and metaphorical; eyebrows of a goddess and a certain twinkle of the eye that cannot be quantified; the snore of a baby freight train; an entirely unique sumo kick in the shower that has to be witnessed to be understood in its adorableness; food fits, as in someone who enjoys good food so much that they throw a tiny little fits of scrambly legs and arms; the clumsy singing voice, so earnest it made me cry, her, in high-waisted mom jeans belting country music while dancing with the party sander; secret lap farts like they didn’t exist at all; 6 green chile shits in the morning but not ever saying less chile please, and using 20x sour cream to cool the heat to eat even more green chile; the audacity of making a tin foil carb for a bong and the photo that I treasure yet can’t publish because I know she would dislike the it, but it’s my favorite one of her; the Zoltar messages, or lack thereof on her part; and all the things that hurt me too, so many things, the disregard, the selfishness, the condescension, the lack of consideration, the shame, it’s like watching your best little buddy not understand they are hurting you so you try to eat all that pain because you know they can’t handle knowing how much it actually is; but then there was the “Happy Valentine’s Day” text; the getting blocked again this fall; the joy of Romancing the Stone and the shock Baby Reindeer; the poorly wrapped Christmas present I got this year, my named scrawled in Sharpie, both the “N” and “K” capital but nothing else, a present so unexpected that I backed away from it when it was handed to me, crying while I did, unable to face it; her exquisite face, a face that my mom, who barely talks to me, told her was beautiful; laughing at a brewery in Grand Junction for so long and so loud that she lost her breath, all because she didn’t know you eat baby corn whole; high, tight muscle above both buttcheeks, like one would see on an ultramarathoner or a Percheron; the dirt under her nails from the front yard; the mud in the sheets; that one time she drove home at 95mph from a ladies’ breath circle because she just wanted to be with me; the pounds of accumulated powders on the counter every morning from the brews that she makes; the fact that she wanted me to drink those brews, then finding out they fucked my face up; again, guys, her fucking face, guys, her motherfucking face; the photo album I have of pics of her that she would never authorize me share, not because of nudes or anything like that, but because I know she wouldn’t like the angles I took them at as they are secret pictures, but they contain so much Art I cannot look away; her, knelt over a pile of possessions that she couldn’t figure out how to get rid of but needed to; her, in Seattle, crying at the train station, when she couldn’t leave the side of the van because she wanted to stay with me; and her, getting to Portland later that night and after having a few days alone I became extraneous once more, so predictable it was expected; and all the other parts of her that I saw that most never will, like the part of her that her community accepts that will always reject me, and the parts of her that reject that community, in secret, because she’s actually looking for something else; those cracked ass heels scraping my butt and lower thighs and shins and back; but maybe mainly it’s this one fucking thing, not the amount of texts and pics, not the phone calls or voice calls, not the endless projects, not the reason to not kill myself, but more so the person that came home one day, pretty early on, and saw I was sad and we talked about why and she broke down crying and said, “I don’t want you to like me less today than you did yesterday,” and that, that folks, is the doorway into a person’s most delicate vulnerability that slammed shut and I don’t know if it will ever open again; I got a front row seat to one of the best TV shows I’ve ever seen and all I wanted to do was take care of her, but for real, not in a superficial way, the deep, deep care, specifically to remodel the mansion she had built about what the idea of a family was, with its haunted rooms and dark corridors, and I wanted it to be like Ford said, after it was over, it was me and me only that would be there when the fire went out, an angel put on Earth just for me.
Oof. That does not seem to be the case.
So I learned something this year. As Van would say, and I’m using his name because he’ll never read this, or care, I learned limerence. But, I did a lot of research on it, as someone who is obsessive would. And it turns out that love, not limerence, is the drive to create a whole world for someone; to take care of them. To pour yourself out for them. More importantly, though, what I learned is that I got me back with her. Before I was divorced, A was all there was. Then for more than a decade, I floundered and couldn’t find that guy who felt that way, the one K would call Hot Chocolate Guy. But I found him again. I didn’t think he was ever going to come back. But here he is, wasting away in this mortal coil, and I don’t know what to do with him.
So I keep writing, thinking if I add more words, say the right details, keep speaking this love to life, it will. So I keep compiling. Going over the notes. Studying the details. But the truth is, really, it’s just one word that is and always will be enough.
It’s Love, in point of fact.
Love, as an action. Not an idea, in all of it’s perfection. But Love that strives and fails over and over again, and is defined by it’s inability to give up, to lose hope, to die. For humanity, it always has been Love, and it always will be.
But, I’m not going to write about her anymore, so rest assured, we don’t have to do this again.
I don’t know that I’ll be alive three months from now. I’m trying to keep going. But if this is the letter is the last one, thank you. Thank all of you for your time. I know you could spend it any other way than this. And you chose me. I could not be more appreciative.
See you ‘round.
Nick
