I celebrated the birth of 2012 in a most unusual fashion for me: no booze, no countdown, no party dress, and I suppose more importantly, no friends. But more on that in a sec.

Dec 30 and I found myself Skyping with a friend in Australia, where for him it was the eve of the new year, and there were celebrations to organize. The mere mention of “home” brought me to tears, despite my transparent bravado. I could choose: would I sit home, forcing myself to sleep before the 3, 2, 1… extravaganza, or would I explore the opportunities offered, only for the sake of getting out of my apartment (which I hadn’t left in 2 days!)?

Then something happened. I was invited to join my housemate with her friends to a vegan dinner, followed by a “Dharma Punx” meditation to welcome the new year. I was rapt. I didn’t need the booze, the party dress or kissing a stranger to herald a new beginning. That wouldn’t be wiping the slate clean for a fresh start. That would be inviting the same drama I’ve been entertaining for the past 7 or so months, inevitably crashing the party that will be 2012.

So there I was, eating my kale caesar salad in a trendy vegan restaurant in the West Village with 3 women I hardly knew, and I was having a blast. 11.00pm and we arrived at our Bowery meditation centre, walked up the steep stairs to a narrow hallway lined with shoes, and emerged into a packed room filled with people from all walks. How liberating. You didn’t have to provide evidence of running away from the circus to be welcomed into this group.

11.10pm the bell rang and we sat in forced stillness and quiet for 30 minutes. The bell rang again and the Dharma Punx teacher came to the front of the room, the most-tattooed man I’ve seen in real life, and he crouched over a cushion and began to talk to us about the Dharma Punx lifestyle: a form of spirituality derived from a punk rock background and Buddhism beliefs, followed by many to awaken natural wisdom and compassion.

I thought it was cool. That’s not so say I’m going to become a tattooed Buddhist, but the simple “goals” they set for themselves are highly achievable, and certainly put a few things in perspective for me.

What a way to bring in the new year. A calm and gentle “happy new year” and a friendly chat until 1am with some really awesome chicks who started the session by saying, “let’s meditate the shit out of this!”, and we did.

Flowers and a balloon from Singapore
A smiley happy aging mandarin from Melbourne
Whatsapp audio recordings of Marilyn-esque birthday tunes
Early-morning birthday songs from Sydney on Viber
A pub-hopping weekend in London
But my favourite of all, the most invaluable of all, just arrived in the mail:

I don’t need thousands of friends on Facebook, or constant phone calls of reassurance, or a man in my bed every night, or or or… to know that I am loved. I already have everything I need. I have a very special select group of friends and family who love and respect me, who are proud of me now and will be in the future, and trust that although I’m not perfect, I make up for it with sparkling personality and a smokin attitude.

To all of you, this is me telling you you’re loved.

Kind of poignant, a little cliche, but very symbolic for me today.

I’ve decided that I will continue to strive to make change wherever it will affect me positively, but I will recognise and accept what I cannot change. Because.

What do I miss the most? I’m afraid the cliche is right on. My friends and family. But it’s not in a selfish way. I miss all the normal stuff, like always having someone to have a beer with any night of the week, my mum’s special roast beef made on request, spontaneous bottles of wine and packets of chips after work during the week, Ryan Adams and cooking when it rains… (Wow, that’s all about food and booze!) Umm… walking around Princes Park and watching the leaves change colour, driving to work and talking my mate’s ear off all the way.

The hardest part is not being there for them when shit goes down. I’m a fixer, and I can’t fix shit from here. Well, I can’t fix shit from there, but at least I can hold hands, wipe tears, make cups of tea… From here, all I have are Skype dates, written words and Whatsapp audio messages.

But here’s the rub: all I can do – wherever I am in the world – is just be. Distance is a bitch, but it’s just distance. I’m holding your hand, no matter how far I need to stretch my arm.

Good friends we have, oh, good friends we’ve lost
Along the way
In this great future,
You can’t forget your past
So dry your tears, I say

I thought about copying and pasting it into my blog, however I know that some readers may take offense to this kind of language and context, so I’ve provided the link above for those of you who are too intrigued not to read it.

The title: “Just f-ing f me already”

Given that I know that 1 of the 3 readers of this blog is my mother, seriously, mum, this is one you will want to pass on… love, your daughter.

There are 29 days till I’m 29 years old. I’m doing something outside of my daily routine each day leading up to my last year of being in my twenties.

Today: working from a cafe in the LES outside in the cold opposite a union protest with a large blow-up rat. So far productivity has been futile…

Kris Brite went straight home from work tonight to get her stuff done. Stopped at the shop to buy some food so she wasn’t hungry while trying to get her stuff done. Then watched a bit of TV so she wasn’t so focussed on work things while trying to get her stuff done. Then she showered so she could feel fresh while trying to get her stuff done. Looked at the time then it realised it was too late to try and get any stuff done so set her alarm for a good night’s sleep so she isn’t so tired tomorrow while trying to get her stuff done. Procrastination is like masturbation. It feels good until you realise you’ve just fucked yourself.

We all experience times of change that are intensely pivotal in our lives, and this message really reinforces the decisions we make sometimes.

Deep, I know. Just how I’m feelin’ today…

In the midst of my afternoon despair, I turned to Paul, as I so often do, but today, the words of this particular song really resonated with me. It would be criminal for me not to share it with you.

Thrown out of a moving limousine
Tied up in corners with no hope of escape
Followed at high speed
Roughed up and handcuffed and led away

Dangled up side down from a great height
Tied to the rails as the train rounds the bend
Hijacked and hot wired
Snarled at by dogs against the chain link fence

Then she tells you
Then she tells you
Then she tells you you’re not home

Sucked out of the airlock
Cornered like a rat in a crowded city square
Lowered into volcanos
Bound up back to back in smart matching chairs

Then she tells you
Then she tells you
Then she tells you you’re not home

My sweetheart dreams
My sweetheart dreams in an empty bed
My sweetheart dreams of revenge

Left for dead in Mexico
Forged in counterfeit invisible ink
Cut-out words on a ransom note

oh, I beg you honey, it’s not what you think

Then she tells you
Then she tells you
Then she tells you you’re not home
Then she tells you you’re not home
Then she tells you you’re not home
Then she tells you you’re not home

* “heaven” by the way, is Casa Mezcal in the Lower East Side. It’s only a B-grade, which I would typically avoid, but I can’t help but feel so at home here. Mexican food, $4 happy hour wines, awesome tunes, amazing energy, and sexy barmen. Did I capture everything??!