Fuck 2020

By Helle Bent

image by Ric Stultz

Fuck 2020, my dear resilient heathens! Sure, there’s no rule this epic, mind-boggling horror franchise has to obey any calendar year, but the symbolism of the shared ritualistic spirit cleansing I find in New Year’s Eve brings me comfort, even if this ritual goes unacknowledged and some folks just want to get smashed. You do you, darling demons. You do you.

Part I

As the doorknob hits 2020 on the way out, please join me in a fun little Satanic mind  cleansing exercise. It shall be my honor to guide thee!

Get comfy. Picture a room in which you feel safe and cozy. 2021 is starting to brighten the room with whatever good vibes you want to assign to it, because nothing is written yet and you are in charge of your future and the energy you allow around you. Things will be ok, you can feel it. They are going to be ok. You feel the warm and illuminating Hellfire burning to a crisp the fascist theocracy that brought us to this moment. In fact, you control this Hellfire. It’s clearing the way for science to once again be valued and trusted, and it’s also keeping your feetsies nice and toasty. A happy little flame waves hello to you. You take a sip of your favorite beverage and a kind smile softens your exquisite face. (You’re a total cutie, if no one’s told you that today. Fucking adorable you are. And brilliant too!)

In your mind’s eye turn your head, and envision an open door, past which is a hallway, a supermassive black hole, strong enough to draw into it the last vile vestiges of 2020. The door will soon close, and 2020 will be but an absurd memory, a harrowing nightmare about which future generations will think we’re grossly exaggerating but we know the truth. We survived it together. We did walk uphill both ways. Barefoot. On barbed wire and ice.

The door has now slammed shut. 2020 is screaming in the hallway, having been brutally assaulted on its way out. This doorknob is the Secret Service of doorknobs, assigned to protect you from 2020 for all eternity. It’s made of hot razor blades, sticky grabby toddler-fingers, relentless Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the Kars for Kids children playing that fucking song on loop. Please feel free to deck this doorknob with whatever gay apparel your mind needs to conjure. You are protected. 2020 will never get back inside and … what’s this odd feeling? Someone once called it hope I think. Your shoulders lower (lower your shoulders!). Your back muscles have released a bit. You take a deep breath and another sip of your beverage. You boop the nose of your loving familiar. Maybe you even light a candle or some sage. 2020 is gone. Whatever lies ahead, 2020 is gone. Whenever you light this candle you will remember that 2020 is in the past. You are in charge now. Set some intentions.

image from Drawception.com ( RSTD2006)

Part II

I tried my hand at writing a holiday carol for you beautiful benevolent beasts, here it goes. I hope you like it.


On the first night of Sol Invictus my True Self gave to me, personal sovereignty.

On the second night of Sol Invictus my True Self reminded me, get out of your own fucking way, you’re the one holding yourself back with all those lingering unhealthy life expectations that you didn’t even know were affecting you and have gone unexamined since your teenage years. Keep asking questions, keep deconstructing the decades-old flawed foundation that hasn’t been serving you. Those false and harmful ideals do not stand up to scrutiny and very clearly, Helle Bent, the non-traditional routes have had your name in lights all over them so get the fuck out of your own way.

(writer’s note: at this point I’m realizing the tempo of the original song will not work given the amount of venting that will likely flow forth since I’ve gone and tapped the brain keg so I’m just gonna run with it…)

On the third night of Sol Invictus my True Self took a pause. This year beat us all down and it’s important to find the Satanic black lining in this maelstrom of misery. Take what joy is offered up wherever it may be found. Happy you can visit the bakery down the street every day now? Hang on to that. It feels inappropriate to be happy about anything while so many are suffering, and this year is colossally awful, so if you’re excited by the amount of movies you get to watch, or are grateful to not have to endure your company holiday party this year, that’s okay. 2020: I’ll Take What I Can Fucking Get.

On the fourth night of Sol Invictus my True Self said to me, when life gives you lemons, use that lemon as a stress ball and squeeze the Hell out of it. Aim for the eyes of the person telling you to make lemonade (figuratively of course – we are a non-violent community). Not everyone likes lemonade and people should mind their own business. They don’t know your life! We are each free to do with lemons as we wish.

On the fifth night of Sol Invictus my True Self promised me … self loyaltyyyy! Four cups of coffee, three French toasts, two more months remote (at least), and knowing I always have my own baaack.

On the six hundred and sixty-sixth night of Sol Invictus (because what even is time?) my True Self granted me, one order of Cognitive Dissonance please! So, I love hair metal, I will never not love hair metal, but I’m also a feminist killjoy who will forever explain why a joke/comment/viewpoint is not funny/not appropriate/misinformed. I cannot reconcile my infernal unconditional love for the entirety of the hair metal culture with my feminist rage and I’m ok with it. Fight me on this, go ahead. I’ll squeeze a lemon in your eye and play air guitar to the melody of your hollow screams. Figuratively of course. Non-violent. Inviolable body and what have you…

On the seventh night of Sol Invictus my True Self baked some brownies, because fuck 2020 and fuck everything and HEY let’s browse Etsy for five hours! I fucking love Etsy and will soon be the proud parent of way too many Schitt’s Creek custom coaster sets. I’m not sorry. I’m a little bit Alexis.

On the eight night of Sol Invictus my True Self reassured me, as the inimitable Heath Ledger said to our boy Joseph Gordon Levitt in 10 Things I Hate About You – “don’t let anyone ever make you feel like you don’t deserve what you want.” What I believe for others must hold true for myself. So it follows that if others deserve love, acceptance, and respect, so must I. Tolerance is a choice. Hypocrisy a disease of character. Nineties movies a wickedly divine gift to us all.

On the ninth night of Sol Invictus my True Self granted me, the freedom to own myself without apology. Little Helle Bent genuinely didn’t know that being this fucking magnificent was even an option. Instructions back then were: choose a mold, pour yourself in, fit as best you can, ignore what doesn’t fit. It’s our duty to add our existences to the unending list of acceptable options for people still figuring themselves out. Visibility and representation are invaluable. There is infinite magic in diversity. Hail yourselves. Live loud and proud. For the children!

On the tenth night of Sol Invictus my True Self reconfirmed, those claiming to love you should love and support you as you are. People who love you actively care if you are happy. Toxic environments can hide in the most desirable of places but you don’t have to tolerate disrespect and abuse of any kind just because someone claims to love you. Mark Wahlberg claimed to love Reese Witherspoon in that Fear movie but none of that was any sort of okay.

On the eleventh night of Sol Invictus my True Self made a list. I will always feel differently after the following activities: A good night’s sleep. A shower. A walk outside. When in doubt, change my scenery. This has proven consistently, demonstrably true.

On the twelfth night of Sol Invictus my True Self finally realized, Below Deck and The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills are wonderful television. I’m late to most trends. I’ve been on a Jersey Shore Family Vacation for years.

On the thirteenth night of Sol Invictus my True Self went to bed. It is exhausting being me.

Good night, good morrow, be excellent to each other, and for the love of rosemary’s baby please let this New Year be a happy one.

Hail Satan. Hail Lilith. Hail Thyselves.

Greetings from Schitt’s Creek