Hey girl, I had a better run than I did in 2010. At least I was not run over, unlike my poor Lambchop.
I did not lack for Klonopin, have surgery, move, or have any important breakdowns. I added many witty and attractive friends to my roster, and most of my existing friends remained witty and attractive. The exception has been properly counseled.
I got several jobs by simple virtue of not drooling on myself, and I am now on my second nemesis. I am closing out the year richer and thinner, which is apparently the American dream.
But there is still work to be done in the coming year. Did I sell the Indian Burial Ground? Travel enough? Truly work at creative pursuits? Have sex with Ryan Gosling? Resolve my .375 life crisis? No.
I was all set to hunker down and berate myself for all the little things that perpetually go wrong and the larger things not yet accomplished. I was going to make A Plan. I would summon my plastic surgeon, my colorist, my trainer, my attorney, my accountants, and my therapist. I would set right the insults of aging and goad myself to superhuman levels of performance in all areas of life.
Then I realized that would be a lot of tedious work. And what do I ultimately prefer? No such thing.
Hence, a solution was born. Or rather casually regurgitated by the cloud with no effort on my part.
It’s Vomitola canon law that losers fuck themselves, so the real secret is to get out of one’s own way. And be the ball. If you build it, you may get sued. So don’t. Even.