Oh joy. Another new year. Yet another opportunity to swim above or very near the line of utter complacency and mediocrity. I can say that as today my ‘pleather’ “COMPARE AT” belt ripped at one of the buckle holes. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I paid a solid $9.99 cash money and expect the damn belt {reversible for us versatile types} to last more than, say, two years. But the poor dear committed ‘belt suicide’ what with my fat gut pushing up against the sole constraining device that keeps the general public from silently muttering “probably glandular” versus “oh my freakin’ gawd what a fat fuck” at a cursory passing glance. But I digress.

On the top shelf of my closet I have Dolce & Gabbana, two Versace, two GUCCI, and one PRADA divoon belts that have mysteriously shrunk to fit someone with more style and chic élan than my current 20lb extra self. I hate that their smug lil’ duster bags and boutique ribbon handled shopping bags mock me whenever I glance upward. My first –and last waking thought, each and every day, is how did I gain this extra weight? And I know the painful truth which I quell with yet another chardonnay.

And while I’m quite certain I can round up enough men to bang my phat ass I just don’t feel sexy enough to do so. Pretty is as pretty does and I do not wish to enter the realm of someone’s fatty fetish worship. No sir, you do not get to jiggle the man boobs. My solo ring master private circus will remain in my bedroom with a lights out act until further notice.

New Year’s Eve was dullsville. I was in bed, out like a light, at 11pm. I didn’t hear a thing; it must have been a quiet night in the neighborhood as usually there’s at least one hi-rise balcony idiot with metal pot lids clanging in the New Year. The new year/first day was spent removing a bit of Christmas trim as one does. My tree is still up but it’s minus all the gold ornaments, the flickering flame lights, the tree top angel, and the fussy tree skirt. I purchased a new tree this year; it’s a winter wonderland flocked-type tree and minus any snow on the virtual ground I’m now guaranteed that proverbial white Christmas. At least in my living room.

This weekend I will bite the bullet and shove the rest of Christmas 2018 back into storage and memory. There were small moments of joy but a lot of sameness, too, as I traverse yet another year–post breakup, as a single man. I think it was Charlotte on ‘Sex and The City’ that noted the amount of time one needs to get over a relationship is exactly half the time of the relationship duration. So, lemme do some math: together for 25-years… looks like this summer will be the half-way point since the breakup. I sure hope there is someone waiting—wanting, and needing– my love on the other side of this chasm of dark despair.

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