Resolutions Be Damned

At 9:20 this morning, I considered making a New Year's resolution.

At 9:21, my diaphragm quivered. A sheen of sweat broke out over my upper lip.

At 9:22, I vomited a little into the back of my mouth.

At 9:23, I swigged some Pepto-Bismol and returned to bed.

This, at the mere thought of self-betterment.

At 11:30, slurping my coffee, I resolved to greet this New Year just as I did the last.

I renounce any change that could result, no matter how minutely or indirectly, in personal growth.

In 2013, I will continue to:

1. Say "fuck" under my breath around children

2. Put my bras in the washing machine

3. Poke my cat's head when she looks excessively relaxed, telling myself that she likes it

4. Bristle when a client starts to cry the minute our session is ending

5. Start sentences with conjunctions

6. React negatively to happy books and movies, and continue to recommend "The House Of Sand and Fog" as the ideal beach read

7. Refuse to wear any article of clothing that has the potential to creep up my ass

8. Put off unclogging my salt shaker

9. Nurse my disdain for William Shatner

10. Try to make the word "pericardium" in Bananagrams, even if I have none of the letters

11. Find any excuse to make bread pudding, then claim victimhood when I gain weight

12. Fail to turn the page on my calendar every month

and, my friends, more than anything,

13. I will continue to rail against parking injustices.

As if you'd expect any different.

Happy New Year, all.

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