After 2012, I am a little worse for wear. It’s not like 2011, when I could confidently stand up and say “well, THAT sucked!” 2012 was an insidious little thing that came in sheep’s clothing and ended up biting me in the ass at the last minute as surely as 2011 tried to do it in its sneaky fashion – which is a laugh. There was, after all, nothing sneaky about 2011’s rough, stupid ways. I saw right through it. 2012 was far more slippery and I trusted it to be a different and shiny ray of hope. In a way, it was.
I couldn’t get a read on this year. I think I aged during it. It said “nuh-uh, sister,” reminded me that I would be turning 40 during the Bad-Bad number year and that I’d better purchase some eye cream for my frickkin SOUL, and smacked me up the back of the head with the wet fish of Morality. Even though 2012 itself has been off in the coat closet doing god-knows-what with you-know-whooooooo. It blames me for all of it.
I’ve told 2013 that I expect better behavior from it than its big slutty brother has displayed. But already the baby this year begins as has thrown its Cheerios onto the kitchen floor and smeared paint into the Persian rug. Nice.
The only thing to do about this is to realize that starting the year out with excessive metaphors is going to get us nowhere. So I’m gonna go make lists. And by that I mean the old school kind, that tell me what to do and how to do it. Because sitting here listening to this impudent and squirchy rain is not doin’ it for me.