the joy luck club

I forgot to resolve. I'm sure I was supposed to join most of the rest of America and engage in the annual ritualistic declaration, but I have been tiptoeing around the baby new year, afraid I'll wake him; 2010 was just that good—at least in comparison to the last batch of years. On Monday, I hope to stop eating like I have two assholes. That's about it.

Twenty ten began with an attitude adjustment, a concerted effort not to tell myself I suck with every passing minute. I focused less on whining my ailments to the world and more on putting them to music (C, G, D, usually, but occasionally D, A, G and sometimes Em). I have liked living this way. The benefit to feeling pain but not sharing it all the time is that you get to create some pretty twisted poetry and still have a bunch of friends with whom to share it.

Twenty eleven is much harder to say, but I hope it will be no less easy to do. The morning began like last year's, with an incredible sunrise and the serenade of crows, followed by a brisk walk in the park. It will end with Harry Potter at our favorite theater. In between, I stood around in the street gabbing with friendly neighbors and eating a roasted pig sandwich and chocolate truffles, drinking ale, telling jokes, and taking pictures. Perpetually-pink-haired Paula Willey, Your Neighborhood Librarian, was the pig tender—and boy was the pig tender! (Sorry.) I tasted brains for the first time (creamy and rich, with a little metallic aftertaste; almost delicious, except for the part about them being brains), though I'm pretty sure black-eyed peas are slightly luckier.

I've put in a request for lots of joy this year, a heaping helping of good times with friends and family, smooth skin, good hair, deep relaxing breaths, a pinch of luck, and just a tiny dash of strife to keep the art interesting. Happy New Year!