happy freaking new year.

Oh, Lord, is she serious?

I hate New Year’s Eve, and New Year’s Day – on principle, really. Making resolutions is a wonderful idea, but doing it every year on January 1st makes it seem like we all just deteriorate over the course of a year and must redeem ourselves come a fairly arbitrary day on the calendar.

I mean, if you want to start doing something, just fucking do it already. I get the “I need a little bit of time to prepare myself” stuff – I mean, if you’re going to quit smoking, it usually doesn’t work to just randomly lay down a cigarette at 10:30 on one Tuesday night and never pick one up again – but the “I want to work out more” or the “I want to be a better person” stuff applies all year round, don’t it?

I don't know who these people are but I want to go to their next party.

And yet, there’s a tiny-yet-overpowering obsessive part of my brain that is positively enamored with the lovely evenness* of Saturday’s calendar date: 1. 1. 11. Poetic, no? I love it. I love love love love love it.

So I guess if I’m going to make some sort of resolution, this would be a hypothetically nice time to do so. Right? Right? Damn you for breaking me, you silly binary numbers! Daaaaamn you!

*That same part of my brain dislikes that I used the word “even” to describe the number 1, but you catch mah drift. Right?



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