This Is The End

As the past twelve months come to a close I look back on the year satisfied—amidst profound changes, including my father’s sudden passing—that most of it turned out fine.

I changed jobs, earned more salary, travelled, blogged, dreamed, overslept, got a shiny new PC and a memorial tattoo, played lots of disc golf, helped charitable causes, hung with friends, saw both The Police at Wrigley and a ballgame at Camden Yards, marked the long-awaited death of Bill Wirtz with a celebratory fist-pump, and generally had an all-around decent year.

Yet I if I have any regrets it’s that I need to focus much harder on creative projects, and on self-motivation.

Honestly, this is inexcusable.

I have spent way too much time in front of the TV this year. Don’t get me wrong. I’ll always live for The History Channel, but everyone needs limits.

I also need to do more adult things like save for the future, and not regard every paycheck as an opportunity to score a new hockey jersey.

As for relationships, I have been out of a long-term one (about six years) since 2005, but am doing okay. Would I like a new girlfriend? Maybe. Just one under the right circumstances. I could write a book on the bad relationships I’ve seen friends and family languish under in recent years, and have no wish to be hasty.

But I also wonder if I’m so embedded in my quirks and domestic habits that no chick in her right mind would ever put up with me – I mean, Jesus, I have twelve tarantulas as pets in my bedroom closet.

Yes, twelve. Relax, they’re in terrariums.

Yet whatever the next twelve months have to offer I think I’ll be okay.

Bring it on, Mr. Destiny.

"Ah, yes. Here you are, Mr. CHV...you might want to keep June 14th
open on your calendar. I'm reading something here about bad shellfish, and
a tumble out a sixth-story window."