I’ve been trying to write some kind of inspiring New Year’s Resolution post for you people, and I gotta say, I suck at that. The truth is, I think New Year’s Resolutions are kind of pointless and stupid. They set us up for failure:
- Go to the gym every week.
- What if you get sick? What if the gym burns down?
- Lose two pounds a week.
- So you bust your ass at the gym [after it’s rebuilt from the fire] but you also have PMS, so you gain a pound and feel like a failure?
- Quit drinking, smoking, double parking, letting your dog crap on the neighbor’s grass, dropping acid, or returning library books late.
- Yeah, because any of these are feasible.
New Year’s Resolutions are just lame, and they feel kind of arbitrary. You eat two (boxes of) doughnut holes and smoke one cigarette, and suddenly your whole year is a waste? By January 2nd? Fuck that.
I’m more for setting New Year’s GOALS. This makes me a lot happier, and we all know I’m all about HAPPY. So here are some of my goals for 2012. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you’re planning to do this year, and yeah, smartasses, go ahead and tell me what you think I should do, too, unless it involves finding Jesus, because I seriously only found my own G-spot like two years ago and I can’t even find all the pieces to the toys my minions just got over the holidays, much less a whole person, so the odds of me getting in on that are pretty fucking slim.
Goal Numero Uno: Fuck Mr. Northman. Yes, in the good way. Oh, yeah. This is a goal I can get behind. Or in front of. Or on top of. Or, you know, inverted with. Or, or…wait…wait…um, what was I saying?
Second Goal: Blog a lot. This one is easy as doughnut holes. I dig blogging. Apparently some people dig reading it. A whole lotta diggin’ and I get to curse in cyber-public. Rock on. I’m on it like Birks on Buddy Christ.
#3: Be nicer to myself. Ok, this one’s a bit closer to a resolution because if I fuck up and I’m mean to myself then I feel like a failure, and then I beat myself up for it, and then I’m being mean to myself some more, and then I’m pissed. So I gotta spell this one out goal-style: Being nicer to myself does not mean never engaging in self-bitchery. It means, “work on that.” It means, “Try hard not to say shit to yourself that you’d punch other people in the nads for saying to you.”
Quatro: Watch every episode of True Blood when Season 5 comes out because there has got to be some Eric Northman sex in there somewhere and I vow to see it. On DVR. So I can rewind and stuff. Every list has to have a “gimme.”
And Then There Were Five: As much as possible, do your best to be, feel, speak, work, listen, love, live, sleep, parent, try, dream, do, have, lust, eat, and laugh better.
Well, shit. I just realized I could have skipped 1 through 4 because #5 pretty much sums it up, but then you’d have had less to read, and I’m all about customer service here, web dwellers.
Bonus point of the day: Did you know men frequently experience wrist and forearm sprains from over-jacking? And I don’t mean working on cars, people. I swear to Alan Ball, I hurt my thumb preventing kid #2 from hurting a lot more than a thumb, and I was telling Mr. Northman we needed to video chat instead of typing because my thumb hurt, when he said, “What? Did you hurt it masturbating?” My initial reaction was something like, “What is the fucking matter with you?” but I swear, the man let me in on some kind of man-code-protected secret and told me that he knows at least three guys who’ve had wrist or hand sprains in the past year from spending too much time…at mechanic school.
So, informal survey here, web dwellers. Is he just coitusing with me here? Is this a bazinga moment, or are men that stupid? I’m serious, people. If that’s true, I am definitely good to go on my Second Goal, because that’s good for at least four posts right there.
Remember to “like” Confessions of A Sexy Mom on Facebook. It makes me feel good. Also, you might win a new particle accelerator if you “follow” my blog. Bazinga!