White stuff is falling on New Year’s Eve, for a change. I do believe this may become an annual New England tradition, just like the Christmas cold I get every year, without fail. Honestly, I’d prefer the fruitcake, to go with all the others out there.
I do pity all the amateurs, who, after getting wild and crazy all evening, will have to navigate that slippery, checkpoint-laden pavement, probably losing their buzz in the process. Personally, I’ll be in bed long before that exciting magical event of numbers increases by one, which is almost as exciting as the day that we go from, say June 9th to June 10th. Woohoo, whoopee!
I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions, but will make an exception this year: My goal is to avoid deer ticks the way I avoid relationships with men. As if they carry the plague or something. If I find one clinging to me, I’ll bash it with a rock until there’s nothing left but a few shattered bits.
That way I can continue my peaceful, happy, singular, unencumbered existence.
Still, all in all, it’s been a decent year, despite the temporary setbacks of illness, poverty, and driving a car with no heat. Nobody I know, including me, died, and spring is just around the corner.
Right?
