It’s a new year, which means… well, alright. Let’s admit it. It basically means nothing, except that now we have to remember to write the new year on your checks. Who am I kidding? Does anyone still use checks?
In case you missed it, here are my resolutions for the end of the world. It’s a little something to look forward to on your first day back to work. You can thank me by joining my army of desperate warriors.
Here are some resolutions to help you survive and thrive in a post-apocalyptic world.
Take this week to look back at the trail of broken promises and shattered hopes from 2010, before you foolishly start making new promises to yourself that you know you’ll never keep.
It is rare in this country that the thin veneer of civilization, that precious and frail illusion that keeps us from acting on our more brutal and baser impulses, falls away.
So, I’m something like four or five days behind my Advent blogging. I’m not going to bother catching up.
Well, ‘tis the season. Nothing says Christmas like constant disappointment and a lingering sense that nothing, including yourself, will ever live up to your expectations, even though you’ve consistently and steadily lowered your expectations each year of your short life. Apparently, they are still too high for whatever scanty set of tools
I’m you’re working with.
Look, I’ve got my fair share of issues, but I like to think that over the years, I’ve
built up massive defenses of alternating layer of detached irony, arrogance and anger dealt with them. Like for instance, a conversation like this a few years ago would’ve stuck with me. It would’ve bounced around in my head, becoming louder and louder, like in an echo chamber. I would’ve overthought it, paced about it and talked about it a lot. Nowadays, I’d never do anything like that because I’m mature, confident and self-assured… right? RIGHT?!
I have an angry dance. It happens when my heart fills so full of bilious hate that it overflows into the rest of my body and I begin to convulse rhythmically like some gyrating rage puppet.
I’m sure he’d get it on a glamor plate if he could. I need to believe he would.