Ugh. New year’s day has dawned. And while I’m all about sunny optimism and bright new beginnings, let’s just understand that the flip of a calendar page is far easier than making–and keeping, real resolutions. Yes, yes..I will lose weight; I will put myself out there more; I will be a better friend… and so forth and so on. Truth be told: at this age my bad habits aren’t really going anywhere. And while they’re few and relatively harmless to no one other than myself (oh hai, emotional cutters) I find the notion of any real and lasting change to be rather daunting. Tis noble to consider giving up the masturbatory habits of a teen age boy, but why? Do I want PornHub to layoff staff?And in the broader spectrum of general wellness, my prostate has never been better.
The new year rang in while I was dozing, near sleep’s shadowy edge. But I was lucid enough to hear my Asian neighbor’s gaggle of girlfriends begin the countdown with subsequent squeals of delight as the clock struck midnight. I was annoyed that they began their countdown at FIVE, four…three… et al, versus the more logical and traditional notion of TEN, NINE, 8, 7… and so forth. I mean, really? Who starts a fucking countdown at FIVE? Note-to-self: slip a copy of TOWN&COUNTRY beneath her door today.
Christmas day was somewhat okay. Rather uneventful which stands in sharp contrast to the many years I was pleasantly partnered wherein I was virtually guaranteed to receive at least five or so ‘must have’ gifts from my eight page “gift-suggestions-that-I-should-really-get-if-you-want-to-fuck-this-boi-pussy-ever-again” thesis. They say in most relationships one partner will harbor more love for their partner than their partner does for them. I believe that notion to be true but I also believe it to flip flop if one’s relationship has any length to it. I mean, really–haven’t we all been there? Years one through three wherein your partner’s rakish habit of guzzling his morning OJ straight from the carton becomes a justifiable homicide in years, say–five to ten. Which is probably the life sentence for killing someone with a swift blow to the head from a Sunbeam waffle iron.
The Christmas trim should begin to come down today but my flight attendant neighbor wants to stop by later for a glass of new year cheer. I’ll resist the urge to purge; though I’ve already removed the season’s greeting cards from their colorful position along the edges of my foyer mirror. That small, mindless task felt like a new chapter in this old book.