I’ve never been a big fan of making
New Year’s resolutions. I mean, I fail to live up to a variety of personal goals
as it is. Why rub salt in even more wounds?
But the idea of making a fresh
start is appealing. It’s imbued with that earnestness I so love in young people
who haven’t yet figured out how much life can really suck.
So, here goes:
·
When someone hollers at me: “Slow down, little lady. You’re
gonna get a speeding ticket!” I will resist the urge to shout back: “You better
stop passing gas – you’re gonna get a farting ticket!”
·
If a complete stranger walks up to me and demands to
know intimate details about my disability, I will refrain from asking them: (1)
about a history of their STDs, (2) why their eyes are so close together, or (3)
how they feel about their momma getting passed around at Sturgis like a day-old
deli tray.
·
The next time a God twaddler hands me a religious
tract, I will resist the urge to pantomime one of Miley Cyrus’s poses for her
Terry Richardson photo shoot. (You saw them -- don’t act so innocent.)
·
I will resist the urge to think very mean thoughts
about insurance companies, banks and Donald Trump. (OK, I will at least try.)
·
I will not allow myself to feel depressed when I watch
TV network news and all of the commercials are for prescription drugs and “wealth
management” services. (I will allow myself to feel old, however.)
·
I will not smash the ramp on my van into the car
parked by a moron in the adjoining access aisle. (You know, the cross-hatched area
between two handicapped parking spaces where no one is supposed to park.) That
is, I will not smash their car more than five times. Per minute.
·
I will not beat myself up when I break any of the
above by Jan. 2, 2016.
