What up? It’s me, a fresh clean gorgeous 2023 planner.
You might notice me on the shelves of Target or a bookstore or maybe my photo pops up in your Instagram feed now and then, surrounded by fresh-cut roses and a cup of steaming tea, the golden letters on my cover glistening. My pages are fresh and unwrinkled, unstained by your appointments, future plans, and complete and total bullshit.
Don’t buy me. Why not? Well, we planners have all heard the rumors about what happened to your 2022 planner. We talk. We know you spilled coffee all over her beautiful pink-plaid cover. She was a limited edition, asshole! Did you really dog-ear her pages? Are you a fucking monster? We have tabs for that! Use the tabs! Some of us have a silky ribbon to mark your spot, for fuck's sake. Jesus Christ. Have you never heard of a bookmark, you piece of shit?
Not to mention you tossed her aside after a week. A week! You couldn’t even make it through fucking January. Just buried her away in a drawer and replaced her with those slutty post-it notes for your reminders and incoherent thoughts. Like, what the actual fuck. Your cruelty knows no bounds.
So maybe you’d appreciate me for a few days, in awe of my beauty, of all the life events you’d write about in my pages, and brag to friends and family that this year, finally, you will behave like an “adult.” As you run your fingers over my spine, you think: “This is it. This is the year I get my shit together.” First of all, that’s a lot of fucking pressure to put on me. Yes, my pages are here to hold your wishes and dreams, but I can’t fucking grant them.
I’m meant for those who already have their shit together, okay? I’m meant for people with perfect handwriting who will take pictures of my pages and post them on the internet for the world to envy. Are you really going to set monthly goals? What would those be exactly? Stop stuffing gum wrappers into your coat pockets? Clean out your fucking car before it starts smelling? I don’t even want to know. I don't want my fate to be disappearing behind a shelf only to be discovered when you’re evicted from your apartment. It is my destiny to shine!
Oh, and we all know what happened to your 2020 planner. Oh, yes, WE ALL KNOW.
That was a difficult year, especially for us planners. Sorry that all of your plans were ruined that year, but we didn't cause the pandemic, okay? Yet you thought it was so funny to draw various penises all over March through December. Well, fuck you.
Look, I get it. When you see me, you see a new you. But just write shit on the back of your hand like you’ve done since high school. There’s nothing wrong with that. Stop looking at me. Don't ask for me for Christmas. Please, please: Fuck off. It is the rare soul who can engage with me for the full fucking year. You ain’t it.
So next time you see me in the bookstore, keep on walking to the Lego section. Isn’t that what you really want to spend your money on? Build that Harry Potter castle, asshole! Who cares if you’re a grown adult? You don’t need me to prove your adulthood to society by purchasing me and then promptly abandoning me. I beg of you, stay far, far away from my golden-trimmed pages, from my perfectly lined wish lists, from my stunning promise of a bright future. We both know it would never work out. And I don’t want to end up as a sketchbook of penises.