Anybody that has hung around this blog for more than a few seconds knows that I don’t have the sort of personality that celebrates a New Year. Or anything else for that matter, at least not without one eye looking at the half-empty glass about to fall onto the floor and break. And this year was my best year yet of non-celebrating: a few beers, some TV watchin’, food eatin’, and in bed by nine while Wifey fumed and mentally cursed me and my worsening attitude in the living room below.

“Last year sucked, this year sucked, and I have no doubt that next year will suck. What the hell is there to celebrate?”
           — Unknown1

On the bright side, I was up early the next morning to take care of the dogs, watch the footy, and get my daily 3 miles of Dreadmill lumbering2 in before reliving the same night all over again, only without Wifey being pissed at me. Am I proud of my un-celebratory behavior? Of course not. Am I an asshole? Absolutely! Would I do it again? 100%.

Because I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer (not the porn star of the same name), I will finish with the same New Year’s Words of Wisdom I said this time last year, but with an amended date:

I am willing to give ’22 a chance. I mean, things will get better, but just like a case of gonorrhea, it might take a while and may include some pus-like discharge from the tip of the penis.

I think I may make that my official New Year’s Eve toast from now until the end of my days. Which, given the world we live in, could be any day now.



SIDE NOTE II: The photos seen here today were taken in the backyard of the Cul-D- Sac Shack. I stalk them Rear Window style.

  1. OK, it was me.
  2. I finished the week with 21 miles of Dreadmill lumbering and running jogging intervals. Next week I graduate to the bike and the magic Zwift machine combined with outdoor walks with my camera. #fatbutfitish

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