fupafighter

de-Resolutions

Normally, the term 'resolution' in my vocabulary would likely refer to the output quality of an image, measured in dots-per-inch or megapixels (as in my Hi-Def, widescreen TV that I'm now in a long-term relationship with). However, how can I not indulge in New Year's cliche when I bought into the hype of low-carb OJ, whitening strips, and vagiplasty. Resolution #1: Stop Lying (my teeth are actually naturally radiant).

I spoke to a friend last night who presented me with the view that New Year resolutions don't actually begin until a few days after the 1st--I mean seriously, how can you lose ten pounds when the morning (or afternoon) afterwards all you want is a greasy cheeseburger with a double helping of fries? Or, as in sometimes my case, a six-ounce serving of raw tuna? Regardless, I think this should be the new norm instituted--New Years on the 5th. Hey, that should cure most hangovers and 24-hour relapses (I'm using "most" very generously here). Hey, R. Jovi, the only thing you should be smokin' now is a nice, big *!@*!

This year, though, I really have no set resolutions. That's b/c in the past I have resolved not to keep them. For instance now, it would be hard for me to write with more discipline, eat better, and smoke less in-between the hangover and the anti-histamines. Rather, I would like to make realistic promises to myself:

1. I will drink more Amstel Light instead of Hooegarden.
2. I will watch more porn and masturbate with biblical zeal.
3. When I make excuses to employers/teachers/family/friends, I'll make them more believable.
4. I will stop saying I was "vacuuming" when I blatantly ignore someone's call.
5. After I've showered for the fourth time in a day, I won't say it was but the third.
6. I should stop denying that The Ellen DeGeneres Show is the only program I TiVo.
7. I have to stop telling people I have TiVo when it's really DVR.
8. When someone sinks into my couch, I wont' tell them it's faulty springs and own up to my fossilized ass-print.
9. I will stop pretending to decide between a subway and a cab when, in the end, I'll always take a cab.
10. Ahh, finally, I'll won't delude myself in the fact that I actually do need to wear a bra.

Happy New Beer

I think by now the 72 hour hangover has subsided and evolved into a much more effective body annihilator--the flat-out flu.  If anyone thought I was packin' (ahem) walnuts 'neath my jaws, well, you were wrong.  Those, in fact, are just my inflamed glands.  And funny how when I'm sick I never get that sexy, smoky, jazz singer voice.  Oh no, I sound like Gerard Depardieu.  And thanks to Chez Pot Roast's fabulous New Year's feast, I bet I look a little like aforementioned fat Frenchman as well.

A shout out then belongs to Chef Pot Roast who so kindly threw the holiday party that would in the end, really, kill me.  I'm surprised I didn't tuck his meatballs into my jacket pockets as I slipped out of his apt. at dawn.  The tira-milkshake, though resembling slightly in consistency to that of an alcohol-induced bowel movement (which of course I would have no knowledge of), was so tasty that I almost enjoyed it again the next afternoon as I struggled not to make a donation to the porcelain demi-god.  Also, 10 a.m. is when a lot of things happen--it's when The New Yorker staff is supposed to get into the office; it's when my neighborhood liquor store opens; it's when Ellen's talk show airs in New York.  It was also the time I went to bed on New Year's day.  All in all though, I'd say the soiree was a success, even though I've lost recollection of pockets of time, but I've heard those periods were fun too ;)