The morning of New Year’s Eve, 2012
9:20: I consider making a New Year’s resolution.
9:21: My diaphragm quivers. A sheen of sweat breaks out over my lip.
9:22: I vomit a little into the back of my mouth.
9:23: I swig some Pepto-Bismol and return to bed.
This, at the mere thought of self-betterment.
At 11:30, slurping my coffee, I resolve to greet this New Year just as I did the last.
I renounce any change that could result, no matter how minutely or indirectly, in personal growth.
In 2013, I will continue to:
1. Say fuck under my breath around children
2. Put my bras in the washing machine
3. Poke my cat’s head when she’s excessively relaxed, telling myself that she likes it
4. Bristle when a client starts to cry the minute our session is ending
5. Start sentences with conjunctions
6. React negatively to happy books and movies, and continue to recommend “The House Of Sand and Fog” as the ideal beach read
7. Refuse to wear any article of clothing that has the potential to creep up my ass
8. Put off unclogging my salt shaker
9. Nurse my disdain for William Shatner
10. Try to make the word “pericardium” in word games, despite having none of the letters
11. Find any excuse to make bread pudding, then claim victimhood when I gain weight
12. Fail to turn the page on my calendar, causing me to dress inappropriately for the season
and, my friends, more than anything,
13. I will continue to rail against parking injustices.
As if you’d expect any different.Cropped Out | Exposure →