Let me be among the first to welcome you to 2013, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll go about it quietly, no noisemakers or fireworks, in case you celebrated too enthusiastically last night. Deal?
Wow, can you even see out of those eyes? They’re so bloodshot. Could I get you an aspirin? Help you to a chair? Please, make yourself comfortable, if you can.
I can’t speak for you, but, as for me, I’m tickled pink 2012 is over. I mean, the year began in a damn ambulance, for pete’s sake, then rolled to a stop eleven months later on two flat tires. What’s to get all misty-eyed about?
Well, let’s review, shall we?
2012, if you remember, had three Friday the 13ths. That’s three times more bad luck than usual. In 2013 you’ll need to break a mirror or walk under a ladder for such abundant misfortune. I’ll pass, thank you.
The year also brought the untimely death of Twinkies, a drought, a slew of apocalyptic predictions, solar storms, freezer burned fingertips, a radioactive thyroid, one lunch involving the Heimlich maneuver, and a chronic, persistent blog funk. The worst, I think, has been the stoopid blog funk.
Just when I’m ready to concede defeat and hang up my pencil, my brain sputters back to life for a minute. It coughs out a relatively decent post, which gives rise to the hope that all is not lost. So I try to come up with a second consecutive decent post. And? I wind up with something like this.
Seriously, who’d turn all wistful and nostalgic over a year like that? Not me — uh-oh, there go the tornado sirens. Would you excuse me, please? Aaaaaaaah …
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