Category: New Year’s Eve
Drum roll please. Here are ten New Year’s resolutions you, being a sane adult of above-average intelligence, never thought of. Which is a good thing.
- Adopt a new vice – Why all the bull about trying to stop a vice, like smoking or junk food? Everyone knows you’re not going to do it. Instead, go out and get a new vice. Start snorting Kool-Aid or hijacking school buses full of penguins.
- Eat as many weird meats as you can – You can define weird any way you like. Frogs, turtles, snakes, lizards, worms. Nah, those aren’t weird enough. Chicken embryos, fish excrement, maggots, and testicles of just about any animal. That’s more like it.
- Read every street sign you see out loud – Whether you’re walking down the street by yourself or on a crowded bus, read those street sounds loud and proud. Articulate each and every one. Some may thank you for the reminder, others will punch you in the face.
- Fart downwind – Not as easy as it sounds, especially in a building with no wind. To rectify that situation, keep a handheld fan on your person at all times. Every time you fart, fan it downwind. Fart, fan, fart, fan, fart fan, just like that.
- Set the World Record for Most Times Abducted by Aliens – Might be tough to carry this one out. Unless you start carving mountains out of your mashed potatoes or invent warp drive technology or [insert your favorite sci-fi/alien reference here].
- Learn to play the accordion – Weird Al Yankovic played one, so why can’t you? The key is to practice, practice, practice. Especially late at night, when you can’t sleep because all the weird meats you’re eating are causing massive downwind farts.
- End all discussions with “To be continued…” – Leave everyone hanging. Extra points if you can end on a cliffhanger or an especially important point.
- Spit generously – Nothing says “manly” like lodging a good, healthy loogie from the gullet and landing with a satisfying blop. And chicks totally dig it.
- Start ending sentences with a preposition – You know you want to. This includes blog posts, of course. Ending with prepositions is where it’s at.
- Suck less on a daily average – Since the opposite of suck is blow, then to carry out this resolution, you can thusly and simply, blow more.
And no, I am not resolving to do any of these. If you would like to, then, please stand upwind of me.
“How would you rate this year for you?” my friend asked. “From a scale of one to five: one being the worst, five being the best.”
I scratched my chin and cleared my throat. Then I gave my answer.
“Five,” I replied.
He sat back in his seat. “Five? The best? Really?” He clutched his espresso and regarded me through the hot rising vapors.
I nodded. “I would give 2008 a five because this was a year of new starts and new challenges. Despite the poor economy and layoffs, there’s been a lot of new hope too. And I don’t just mean a new presidency. For me, personally, there’ve been a lot of positives.”
I picked up my mocha and took a sip. He echoed with a sip of espresso. For a brief moment, we savored our drinks and pondered the question. Then he put his cup down and waited for me to continue. I cleared my throat again.
“First of all, I started a new relationship. It wasn’t always easy, but it’s been going really well. I’m totally happy and excited about it. Heck, I kind of feel like the luckiest guy in the world to have met her. And it happened all because of chance. Or perhaps fate. That in itself could give 2008 a high score.”
He nodded. “True, you’ve been very lucky in the romance department.”
“Career-wise, starting a new business has been exciting as hell too. Frustrating as hell sometimes, but mostly exciting. I’ve made some mistakes, but they’re great lessons learned. I actually look forward to, and expect to make many mistakes. Each one is going to make us that much stronger, especially in this economy. While other people are scared off by such risks, we’re facing them head-on and still making a profit.”
“That’s fantastic! Not many people can do what you’re doing.”
“And don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m not struggling or scared at all. There are days when I wake up wondering if this is going to be sustainable in the long run. But that’s what I wanted to worry about when I quit my full-time job. I wanted the fear of having no steady paycheck to propel me forward. Having no cushion is a tremendous motivator for making immediate profits, let me tell you.”
He shook his head. “I’ll bet.”
“Investment-wise, not all of them have panned out. My portfolio has taken a dive, like most other people. But I still have a few hopeful investments out there. The market will swing back up again too. While there’s been lots of stress around my investments, overall, I’m pleased with my positions.”
“That’s very optimistic of you. A lot of people feel quite differently about that.”
I shrugged. “Yea, I know. Perhaps my rating for this year isn’t just due to the excitement of these new starts and challenges. It’s also due to my general outlook on life. I tend to be optimistic about a lot of things. For me, mistakes don’t get me down as much as others, because I see them as ways to strengthen myself. And where others see problems, I see opportunities. Ultimately, I think life is all about what you make of it. You can choose to be pessimistic about it, or optimistic about it. You can choose to be pushed around and react to the world, or push back and shape the world.” I stared at my mocha. “I’m beginning to sound full of myself, aren’t I?”
He smiled. “I think your view is refreshing. It’s a very hopeful view. In these dark days, it’s nice to see something with some light in their eyes.”
I quietly took a slow sip, savoring the sweet mocha on my tongue. “I’m not saying it’s easy to always stay positive. But once I push my mind into that direction, it’s really easy to continue with that attitude. It’s like a muscle; the more I think this way, the easier it is to see all the possibilities out there. The more I work it, the stronger it becomes. Hmmm, I’m not sure if that analogy totally works.”
He took another sip, then held his cup and paused for a moment. “You know what you should do? You should write about this.”
I smirked. “How do you know I wasn’t already going to?”
He chuckled. “You saw an opportunity for a story and you went for it. Very opportunistic of you.”
We laughed and savored the last few drops of our drinks. Then we put our cups down for a reflective moment. I cleared my throat. “So how would you rate this year?”
“You done good boy,” praised Momma Timmy, filling me with a sense of pride only an impressionable youth would feel when commended by an adult. Those were some great years, those high school years.
Well, no. High school sucked. But at least I could hold my liquor. (Praise the public school system!)
I was fifteen or sixteen. It was New Year’s Eve. A group of us were invited to Timmy’s mom’s house in the projects in Queens. For many of us, it was our first time in the projects.
“Call me Momma Timmy,” she hollered. Momma Timmy was a massive woman, both literally and figuratively. She occupied a space larger than life. When she entered the room, the walls shook from the sheer force of her personality.
“Dis is my punch.” She pointed at a large bowl of fruit punch that smelled more like vodka than fruit. It was as flammable as it was toxic to the liver. I got buzzed just looking at it.
“Dis be da bathroom. Don’ clog da toilet, now, ya hear!” We nodded emphatically. With a voice like a locomotive and forearms like a tracker, we didn’t want to do anything to cross Momma Timmy. No one crosses Momma Timmy.
“Here be da kitchen. There be some forties in da fridge. Help yo’self. And have a Happy New Year!” We thanked her graciously and opened the fridge.
Forties. I had never seen one before. It was heavy, cold, and I had no idea how my bladder was going to hold that much liquid.
Momma Timmy’s tiny apartment was buzzing with people. Neighbors, Timmy’s friends from Queens, and other assorted well-wishers and party-crashers loitered every room.
At one point, a little kid (who must have been seven or eight) came up to us. “Hey, want to buy a hot dog?” He pulled down his pants and flashed us.
“Boy, you best pull yo’ pants up, befo’ I smack da black off yo’ ass!” Momma Timmy bellowed. The little boy ran down the hallway in laughter.
My first sip of alcohol was tough. It was bitter all around. Bitter going in, bitter going down, and bitter aftertaste. Yuck. I took several hearty swallows anyways.
Since we were all insecure high school kids, we measured our manliness by how quickly we consumed our forties. I think Tony was in the lead, which led him to dancing on the coffee table. I can’t remember if he was dancing with a girl or just by himself.
Later, he ended up with his face in the toilet bowl. We had to pull him out so he wouldn’t drown.
Each subsequent swallow was more bitter than the last. I couldn’t understand how people wanted more alcohol the more they drank. I took large gulps not because I wanted to finish first, but because I wanted to be done with the forty and not have to take another gulp.
Despite my efforts, I was the last person to finish. The others held onto their empty bottles with pride (except for Tony, who was too busy dancing).
Then it started. The vomiting.
It started innocently enough. Someone ran to the bathroom to discreetly, yet painfully, force his intestines out through his throat. Then the smell and sound prompted copycaters. Soon, everyone from my high school was praying to the Porcelain God (again, except for Tony, who was passed out in front of the Porcelain God).
Everyone, that is, except for me.
That’s not to say my intestines weren’t trying to force themselves up through my throat. They were. Trust me, they were. I fought with every muscle of restraint I had to keep the bile down.
In retrospect, I should have vomited; I would have felt much better afterwards. But I was just a dumb high school kid. What the hell did I know?
By the end of the night, everyone was passed out on the floor. I curled up near the window, where the ice-cold breeze helped me fight the urge to purge. Some people were still vomiting in the hallway. The smell of smoke, vomit, and alcohol filled the air. Which was another reason for my huddling near an fresh air.
“You done good boy.” I looked up. Momma Timmy was standing over me. “You done good. You held yo’ liquor.” She nodded the nod of adult respect. Then she shuffled off.
I turned back down and closed my eyes. As I focused my stomach muscles on holding back the tides, Momma Timmy’s words echoed in my mind.
“You done good boy. You done good. You held yo’ liquor.”
. . .
What was your first drink like?
You feel that? That tingling sensation in your gut? That’s deja vu. You’re feeling it because you’ve been here before. That’s right. You’ve been at this very spot of the Sun before; approximately 365.25 days ago, in fact.
You know what that means? Uh, sure, it could mean you have to go to the bathroom. Tingling sensations in the gut usually mean that. But more than that, it means it’s time for your new New Year’s resolution. It’s time to make a promise to yourself that you’ll have to carry out within the next 365.25 days.
So what’s your New Year’s resolution?
Mine:
I resolve to do two things this year that are outside my usual comfort zone. They can be anything; they just have to take me outside my comfort zone. I don’t know what they’ll be just yet, so I’ll have to figure them out as I go along.
Happy New Year!
. . .
What’s your New Year’s resolution?
I wonder what was on her mind. She seemed awfully depressed, sitting at the bar by herself. She finished three drinks in the span of fifteen minutes.
She came in by herself. Sat down and ordered a Cosmopolitan. Stared off into space and drank her cocktail, without a glance to anyone else in the bar.
Drinking alone. That’s a sign of depression if I ever saw one.
She got up and left after her third drink. Quite abruptly.
We were near NYU. She could have been a college student. Maybe a graduate student; she didn’t look like an undergrad.
She wasn’t ugly at all; fairly pretty, in fact. So it couldn’t have been that she couldn’t find someone to be with.
Maybe it was something from New Years Eve. It was only two days after New Years. Maybe her boyfriend cheated on her. Maybe he dumped her. Maybe she dumped him, and was having second thoughts.
Though she didn’t order straight alcohol, she chugged her cocktails pretty quickly. She must have wanted to get drunk, but couldn’t handle doing straight shots.
Wanting to get drunk. Alone. For some people, something’s got to upset you pretty badly to push you to that brink.
She didn’t look like the type who was a lush and would get drunk for the hell of it. So she definitely had to have a purpose.
In some local bars, the bartender would offer a sympathetic ear. This wasn’t that kind of bar though. It was a college student haunt and the bartenders there had their hands full of eager college kids.
She must not have wanted to talk. No glances at anyone else, no sympathetic bartender. Probably wanted to be left alone to her alcohol.
It could have been family trouble instead. Or school trouble. But something told me that it was romantic trouble. People take on a certain look when they’re heartbroken.
Military veterans call it the hundred-yard stare. After seeing combat, they have that stare where their eyes are always looking off in a distance, even when they’re looking at you.
That’s the kind of look she had in her eyes.
After her third Cosmopolitan, she tossed her money at the bar and left. Didn’t want to stay and linger.
Maybe the alcohol helped.
Alcohol rarely does that, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. The Cosmopolitans helped her realize that her problem wasn’t that bad.
She’ll get through this. The world wasn’t over. She’d find another man. There are plenty of fish in the sea.
I felt proud of her when she got up to leave. There you go girl, I thought to myself. Get out of this bar and back on your feet again.
But then again, maybe I’m totally wrong. Maybe she was thinking of something totally different. Maybe she was just having some car trouble.
Gosh, I sure wonder what was on her mind.
. . .
What do you think was on her mind?
Right now, my brain has the same consistency as warm butternut squash, only more pink. My brain is a vegetable, it is, because I just finished watching six consecutive episodes of the Sopranos: 4th Season.
Each episode is one hour long. That’s six hours I’ve been on this couch. Six hours for those curry potatoes my Mom made to sink into my gut and turn me into a literal couch potato.
I don’t have a television in my apartment. “It’s a time sink, a waste of time,” I tell myself. If I have one, I’ll turn it on as soon as I get home from work. Then I’ll spend the rest of the evening channel surfing and feeling my college education melt into a tasteful paste that, when served with a sprinkle of garlic, can make for a great appetizer.
I’ve been much more productive since I got rid of my television. Life sans TV means more reading, more keeping in touch with long-distance friends, more time for hobbies. Just more productivity in general. It’s great.
Don’t think that mean I don’t like TV. Hells no. Case in point: the last six hours.
When given free access to television, as I have now that I’m home for the holidays, all thoughts of productivity drip right out my nose with the holiday sniffles.
Pro-duct-tape-active-enmity? What’s that? Sounds like something that would take effort, and hells no, I wouldn’t want to be doing that. Not when there’s free access to television here. Television. TV. My precious…
If you stuck a spoon into my ear during the holidays, you’d have a scoopful of wholesome yummy vegetable goodness.
So I feel hella bad about this. First, I feel bad that the word “hella” has stuck in my vocabulary, prompting my New York friends to say, “Damn man, those Californians have assimilated you. You’re one of THEM now!”
Second, I feel bad about losing six precious hours of otherwise productive time in my life. I know all about Paulie’s conniving with Johnny Sack while he was in prison, but I’ll never have those six otherwise productive hours back.
But you know what? This is a vacation. It’s my winter break. Why the hell should I be productive today? I should be relaxing, enjoying my vacation, dammit.
So I’m going to shut my laptop off now and move on to episode seven (smell that butternut? Mmmm!). See you next week. Happy Holidays! And Happy New Year!
I know you want it. The New Year’s Kiss.
Sure you do. And who wouldn’t? What better way to start off a new year than with a nice, passionate kiss (or wet and sloppy — however you like ‘em)?
Maybe you have a significant other already and you know your kiss is coming, you lucky duck. But what if you don’t? You’re still looking. Hoping. Trying to find that special someone who can deliver that New Year’s Kiss.
How, you wonder. How are you going to get that New Year’s Kiss?
The hard part is choosing your target. By the time the clock strikes twelve (or the countdown drops to zero), make sure your target is standing nearby.
But who should should that be? How do you find that special someone? Here are some options.
The Love Interest
Let’s start with the special someone who you’ve been eyeing for months, maybe even years. You are perhaps a secret admirer or an open pursuer. This, of course, is the person you’ve been longing for a kiss from all along.
You may have to go to great lengths to get this special someone into the party to which you’re going. Or you just have to get yourself to his/her party.
Bring along a friend who knows the situation and can give you that sometimes-annoying-but-oh-so-useful encouragement; especially if you’re a secret admirer or prone to holding back displays of affection. This friend should push you to declare your interest, because if you don’t do that, you’re not going to get your Kiss.
Be forewarned: your Love Interest may not reciprocate your feelings. It sucks to think that, but it’s possible. So if you don’t get your Kiss from your Love Interest, then you can go for one of the other options.
The Admirer
Maybe YOU are someone else’s Love Interest. Someone’s been pursuing you for a while. And is even going to your party.
The tricky part here is that you may not reciprocate your Admirer’s feelings. Sucks for him/her, but it’s possible. And since you know how it is, you probably don’t want to hurt that person unnecessarily.
So getting a Kiss from an Admirer isn’t always the smartest thing. But it’s an easy target, a sure thing. If you want a Kiss at all costs, it’s an alternative. I’m not passing judgment here, I’m just giving you options.
The Beautiful Stranger
You just met this person recently. You don’t know that much about him/her, except that something caught your attention. Maybe it’s the person’s charm, maybe it’s the person’s humor, maybe it’s just plain ole’ lust.
Who knows? Who cares? This person has your interest and you sure wouldn’t mind getting a Kiss from him/her.
The Beautiful Stranger could be someone you met earlier that week. Or maybe it’s someone you met right here, right now, at the New Year’s Eve party. You spotted the Stranger among the crowd and smiled. The Stranger smiled back. Spark! And that’s all you needed. The Kiss is all yours.
The Bystander
Just like that famous photograph of a sailor kissing a nurse after World War II, you could also just grab the nearest Bystander and kiss away. It’s certainly a possibility. It may even lead to wonderful things.
Granted, this is much easier for a girl to do than a guy. A guy could get slapped or kneed in the balls.
But hey guys, remember that there are plenty of girls out there who are reading this and thinking the exact same thing. They’re just like us, these girls; they want a Kiss just as badly as we do.
The key here is to not be a prick about it. Give this beautiful Bystander a gentle kiss, then look up, smile, tell her that it was wonderful, and ask her for her name.
So go out there and get your New Year’s Kiss. And good luck!
2001 was the year Life tore a gash and poured salt and lemon juice into the wound.
Is there anyone who isn’t happy to see this sorry year end?
First the California energy crisis burn businesses like a moth on a flame. Sure, some people got some days off from work. That was good. But have you ever tried taking a pee in the dark? The clean-up afterwards just plain sucks, let me tell you.
Next the Internet companies die faster than Clinton’s credibility on Monica’s stained dress. The Internet downfall left scarred, deserted battlefields in much of Silicon Valley and other hi-tech locales.
Finally, maniacal, cowardly terrorists launch an attack on the non-Muslim world. How the deaths of thousands will help feed and clothe their people still confuses me. Worse, they hide behind religion as their excuse. As if the Koran really says, “Allah commands you to destroy the World Trade Center by hijacking planes with paper cutters.”
I guess Life figured one bad thing wasn’t enough. Just an energy crisis? Nah, let’s give them a recession and disaster too.
Who was it that said bad things come in threes?
So 2001 is finally over now. All gone. Bye bye. Time to start thinking about a new year, a new beginning. Life, let’s start over and try this again, huh?
If bad things come in threes, maybe good things will come in threes too.
Maybe the economy will rise again. Maybe we’ll find the hole in which bin Laden is hiding. Maybe we’ll rebuild the WTC bigger and better.
What exactly the future holds I don’t know. But what I do know is that this new year brings new hope. Good things are going to come. I can feel it.
I’m pretty psyched about it, in fact. New beginnings are always refreshing.
Goodbye 2001. Happy New Year! Hello 2002!
It’s the beginning of the new millennium and I just got my first kiss. Hot damn!
And I only met her that night.
This is significant, you see, because this sort of thing is somewhat unusual for me. I don’t normally kiss girls I don’t know. Actually, correction: I’ve never kissed a girl I didn’t know before. Call my shy, call me a prude, call me a gentleman, I don’t care. I’ve just never had a reason to do it before.
For this New Year’s Eve party though, there was a damn good reason. A hot damn reason—she was hot! And totally wasted! The perfect combination for a kiss from the Mikenator, oh yea baby.
At the party, there was a lingerie fashion show. Scantily clad ladies (and, unfortunately, guys) strutted their stuff for an intoxicated audience. It was awesome.
“The sex level of the room is high tonight!” the DJ declared. Lame line. But something was definitely high that night.
A friend kept my cup constantly full of frosted alcoholic goodness. My liver was nice and toasty. Not that I noticed. Hell, I could have shat my liver out and slipped on it and wouldn’t have noticed.
So here’s what happened. I don’t remember much, but what I do remember is etched forever into my mind.
As the ball was about to drop, my friends and I climbed onto the stage with our drinks. The girl I met came along too. Both her and I were pretty wasted by this point. The crowd started cheering “10… 9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Happy New Year!”
Then I turned to my friends. I shook hands with the guys and pecked the cheeks of the girls. When I got to the girl I met, we locked lips. No cheek, just straight for the lips.
And we locked them good. Tighter than a beaver’s ass we were. You couldn’t have separated us even with a welding torch and jackhammer. Whenever there’s a commercial about how strong a particular brand of glue is, they show us as an example.
And on it went. It seemed like hours, days, years all at once. Then we broke apart for some oxygen. I took a long deep breath and noticed, hey, that we were the only two left on the stage. Everyone else was back on the dance floor by this time. Some were gawking at us with what I imagined to be envious eyes and lurid smirks.
We climbed off the stage and mingled into the dance floor. Then we locked lips again. Because, you know, you shouldn’t keep a refrigerator door open like that. It needs to be locked and sealed. I think we might have swayed a bit too, to give the impression that we were dancing too. Or maybe that was just my head swimming.
We finally broke the seal around our lips and sensually into each other’s eyes. Well, as sensual as two totally wasted people can get in a dimly lit New Year’s Eve party.
Then a friend of mine rushed over. She screamed that another friend was in the bathroom puking and crying her guts out. Apparently over me.
Then a friend of the girl I met rushed over and said something that seemed equally urgent to her. We both were pulled away by our friends.
After that last kiss, I never saw that seweetee again. And as suddenly as it all happened, it was all over.
And wow, what a way to start the new millennium! Hot damn! Happy New Year everyone!
. . .
Did you get a New Year’s Eve kiss for the millennium?
This millennium, I resolve to casually date.
Odd prediction, eh? To explain further, let me give you some background information.
For the sake of this argument, I’m going to generalize the whole dating scene into two main categories: the Casual Date and the Spouse Interview.
- The Casual Date
- The Casual Date is the time that two individuals (or more, depending upon your level of kinkiness) spend together in some romantic capacity. They aren’t mutually exclusive and can technically see other people. The intent can range from just wanting to find out what’s on the other person’s mind to what’s in the other person’s pants.
- The Spouse Interview
- In contrast, the participants of a Spouse Interview are mutually exclusive. Even after only one date, seeing another person can be considered “cheating” and will lead to an immediate dismissal. A lot of thought is put into choosing a candidate for this Interview because the intent is to find out if you can live with this person for the rest of your life.
There seems to be an inclination among Asian Americans to do the Spouse Interview rather than the Casual Date. It stems from centuries of arranged marriages and conservative traditions.
Many Asian Americans that I know will almost instinctively bring their dates home to see their parents rather early on in the courtship process, or at least tell their parents all about who they’re seeing. It’s an attempt to make sure their parents “approve,” even though there’s a conflicting side in their minds that couldn’t give two hoots about what their parents think.
By the way, this kind of paradoxical thinking is just an inkling into the kind of Multiple-Personality-Disorder syndrome that infects not just Asian Americans, but anyone who comes from two vastly different cultures.
Not that I’m saying I have multiple personalities. Yes I do. No I don’t. Yes I do. No I don’t. Yes I…
Ahem. Pardon me.
So what was I talking about? Ah yes, the Casual Date.
Here’s an example of what I mean. I recently met a lovely young lady who was great in every aspect except for one thing: she’s a diehard West Coast gal. Though I’m moving to the West Coast soon, I’m an East Coast guy tried and true.
So what does my brain tell me? “What a lovely young lady! But oh no, she’d probably never move to the East Coast. And that’s where I want to start a family. So I guess we’ll never work out. Oh well.”
Yup. Seriously. That’s what I thought to myself.
Somebody please stab my brain with a Q-tip.
I should clarify that it’s not just Asian Americans who are inclined to the Spouse Interview, though I see it most often in this cultural range.
To defend the Spouse Interview, many say, “Why waste time going out with someone you’re not going to spend the rest of your life with?”
I polled a bunch of my friends, and the average age at which the women want to get married is 26-27. For men, it’s more like 32-33 or higher (many didn’t have a set age).
It’s interesting to note here that it was very easy to poll the women because many have already given this a lot of thought. The range of ages for the women varied sharply; half are career-driven and gave me numbers like 32 or higher; the other half are family-driven and gave me numbers like 24 and 25. Being young enough to have about 2-4 kids is the motivation for the family-driven women. Very few gave me numbers in between.
Many of these family-driven women also preferred the husband to be the sole income generator for the family.
Does that surprise you? Many of the Asian Americans that I spoke with are immigrants. They hold strongly to traditional Asian values like paternal family structures. They see spending the rest of their lives in the home raising the children an honorable duty.
On the other side are the Asian Americans who were born in the United States. They take their careers just as seriously as raising a family. And they have dabbled with both Casual Dates and Spouse Interviews.
So back to the argument pro Spouse Interviews. Why waste time going out with someone you’re not going to spend the rest of your life with? Well, if you plan to have children at a young age, I can see why you’d want to find your spouse quickly.
(By the way, here’s another interesting fact to note: the person who gave me that question as a defense for Spouse Interviews is male, not female.)
So why the change of heart for me, you ask? Well, while I definitely want a family someday, I am not looking to get one anytime soon. I want to be able to enjoy life while I’m still young and single.
My move to the West Coast marks a new chapter in my life. It’s a move not only geographically, but mentally as well. I’m a workaholic, and I have to take a step back for a breather before I burn out. I need to take life a little less seriously.
A friend also indirectly helped convince me of this change. We’ve talked about our past relationships, and I’ve found mine somewhat lacking. The experience you gain from meeting and seeing other people can be tremendous. How is one to know who is the Right One unless you’ve seen other people and have a better idea of what traits are and are not compatible with you?
Simple as that.
I’ve kept to the Valentine’s and Mid-Year resolutions that I made last year fairly well. (Wow, I can’t believe these rambles have been around for more than a year now.) So I’m pretty sure I’ll keep this one. I hope.
Casual dating, here I come!
. . .
What’s your New Millennium Resolution?
