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Goodbye 2017, you were horrible and I loved you

2017 was a complicated affair.

Houston Rockets v Golden State Warriors Photo by Ezra Shaw/Getty Images

2017 was a ... good year. I guess? Right? I mean, we didn’t all die (yet, dammit, yet. I know there’s still a few hours left in the day and who the f— knows what could happen between now and then). I mean, it was a year. And, in the spirit of keeping stupid traditions alive until such time as I hopefully don’t have to do this dumb s—t anymore, I decided to write another New Year’s eve ode to the year that was.

We survived what for many of us was the most godawful, head-scratching, stupid series of events imaginable, beginning on January, 20th, and continuing to this day. We watched the Warriors rebound from an unimaginably tricky Finals collapse in 2016 to secure their second championship in three years. We watched Draymond Green win Defensive Player of the Year, finally. We watched the Warriors crush the Cavaliers in five games, followed by the glorious departure from said Cavs of He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named-Who-Hit-The-Shot-In-2016-Of-Which-We-Shall-Not-Speak to the Celtics.

We watched Jimmy Garroppolo arrive on the scene and resurrect a moribund Niners franchise. We watched America crumble under the horrid weight of its follies.

Things were bad. Things were good. Seems like any other year, right?

But something about this year screamed out, “LOOK AT ME!!! LOOOOOOOOK AT ME! I AM THE WORST VERSION OF YOUUUUUU” in a way none of us anticipated.

Sure, the Warriors won the championship. Sure, Garappolo is a handsome man. Sure we haven’t yet gotten involved in a nuclear pissing contest. All fine and well.

But there was something tremendously tiring about this year. Right? So many good things happened in my own life, and yet my memories of 2017 are all jumbled and confused. Yes, I bought my first home and finally got the hell out of NYC. Win, right? And yes, I decided to delete the twitter app off my phone, because f— waking up every morning and compulsively reading that nonsense. But the omnipresent stench of 2017 chased me down like a dog. It’s been hot on my heels, kissing the souls of my feet with its fiery lips, chasing me without mercy.

2017 was a fine year. It was a glorious year. We got to see an entire year’s worth of Stephen Curry, Draymond Green, Kevin Durant, and Klay Thompson. Patrick McCaw cemented his place in our hearts, and then promptly bricked away the key. The Warriors made another bat s—t great move in the draft when they acquired Jordan Bell for cash considerations. Most of the people with whom I am closest in my life have their health. I have more than $10 in my bank account.

Things are good.

And yet, I couldn’t be happier to say goodbye to 2017, that sad sack of an excuse for a year. Rest in peace, you dilapidated shed of horse turds. Here’s to hoping 2018 holds just as much personal and sporting success as 2017, but without the endless barrage of dumb actions, headlines, and intrigues.

Stay warm y’all. I hope you have a hell of a night, wherever you are.

See you on the flipside.

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