Everybody greets the new year in their own special way. Most by offering a prayer for what they hope the future will bring, accompanied with a few words of thanks for what the fading year provided. Others by making resolutions of what they will change about themselves as the course of history ticks over once more.
While I'm not big on prayer (Unless I've gotten myself into the kind of bind only divine intervention can release you from - which is pretty often), and I realized long ago that my New Year resolve lasts until I sober up from the festivities, I would also like to greet you in my own way. So, here we go, my special little welcome to you, the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Nine.
Don't mess with me. Seriously. You tangle with me and I will end you, 2009. You see, I have one great advantage over you. Statistics.
When it comes right down to it, the worst odds on my lifespan say I've got another 40-some-odd years to kick around this planet. Let's call it a better than 40% chance. You? You've got a 0% chance of making it more than 365 days, buddy.
365 days. I've got upwards of 14,600 to do with what I will. So let's play nice in that time we've got together, because when all is said and done - you're nothing baby. You are 2.5% of the remaining time that actuarial tables say I probably have left to me. 2.5%.
So this is how this is going to work: You're going to plod along, one day at a time, grinding your way toward insignificance. I'm going to kick up the Awesome and rock on through into 2010. You're going to stay out of my way or you're gonna get burned.
Time marches on, 2009. And while your big, bad granddaddy the 21st century may be able to kick my ass, you're nothing more than a short stop on my way through this crazy journey called life.
I will END you. And then I will laugh in your face as you fall, swilling booze to celebrate your demise, and I will scream the same challenge at 2010.
2009, I own you. You have 365 days to accept your fate - then it's on.
With hope for peace, love, and health in the New Year,
PS - Seriously. Totally not kidding. You're my bitch.