2002-12-31

Alas, I fear that fate, with the help of some manner of vicious microbe, has made my New Year’s decision for me. I woke up at about three o’clock this morning with the alarming realization that I was in serious danger of tossing my cookies. Fortunately, that didn’t happen, and I feel mostly better now, but I don’t think that upsetting the delicate balance of the fragile ecosystem of my insides with eight gallons of liquor would be advisable at this juncture.

So, while y’all are living it up like the hedonistic miscreants that you are, spare me a thought: I’ll be reclining despondently on my fainting couch, one hand pressed dramatically to my alabaster brow and the other clutching a bag of chips. Ringing in the new year in style, yes sir. I hope this isn’t a portent of things to come in 2003 (“the year of living vicariously”). I would take the opportunity to write up a really spanking list of New Year’s resolutions, but unfortunately I never make them. I’m already staggering under the burden of the resolutions I make, oh, about every Saturday or so, which generally run along the lines of “That’s it! I’m finished! I’m NEVER DRINKING AGAIN. NEVER. …For, like, a month. I’m serious! I’m taking a break for a month. …Except for that birthday party next week. But after that, I’m stopping for SURE.” Trying to live up to those kinds of expectations has done my already-ailing self esteem far too much damage as it is. No sense adding to the problem.

So, happy New Year to all. Be responsible: don’t mix rye and beer. Trust me on that one! You’ll thank me later.