I swear, I'm like your alcoholic husband, apologizing profusely for all the vomit the following morning, only to booze up by 2:14 pm and toss my cookies on the credenza by 3:03 pm.
This year's obligatory puke metaphor achieved, it's apparently 2012. My first instinct is to mumble incoherently about "nothing happening" and "arcane rituals" but this year saw both this and this happen, so I suppose I'm in less of position to complain than I'd thought.
Then why do I feel like a Motion City Soundtrack song?
2012 will see Hull Damage published, Cutthroat Ragtime written and, I vow on my lucky rocket ship underpants, more blogging.
I don't actually have those. I should really get some.
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