Look, can you blame me? It's the early morning of the seventh straight day I've been in the sloppy grip of a lingering, bad-ass cold (excuse my French). First, my throat went all sandpaper and my watery swollen peepers became the victims of something akin to pinkeye. That cold took over my glands, who then took over my throat. It swept down and hacked-up my lungs, and now, this morning, is assaulting me with that slimy refuse colds always kick up. This morning, balled-up Kleenex are taking over the few empty spaces beside this keyboard.
Outside, it's the world's coldest day. What's more, weathercasters claim it'll stay this well-below-zero way through several more lock-downs. The furnace runs unremittingly, and this sweet house--it's still new--scares you when random timbers on the north side scream as they freeze.
That crooked Christmas tree outside my window--it's fake, a freebee from our kids--has to be taken in because once the "Silent Night" has passed, keeping all the ritual regalia up seems tacky, don't you think? Well, I do. Besides, that old cast-off leans like Pisa in the dark backyard. Twice it tumbled over in the brutal wind, and that happened when a human being could actually be outside, walk around without coming back fingerless.
Whose idea was it anyway to have a "new year," as if this morning were any different from any other? Today's Monday, tomorrow's Tuesday--what's the big deal? Bowl games? So what if the sun appears a minute earlier? Of seems to, because it doesn't. Our whole planet just twisted a couple of inches. It's all perception. Besides, Donald J. Trump is still President. Holiday, you say?
The whole idea of "a new year" is arbitrary, just fake news, a come on to get people to flock to Time Square and pop corks anywhere and everywhere. Holiday merchandising. Consumerism. "Auld Lang Syne?" Give me a break.
I never made a resolution in my life that I remember, except the one about losing weight. . .but it doesn't take a calendar date for me to swear on that score. I did it just last weekend after being forced to weigh in at the clinic. I was there for a demon cold. Did I tell you about that? Had it a week already. Just the pits.
"New Year," you say? Bah, humbug.
What I really need is a belly-full of oliebollen.
Maybe that'd do it. Just my share of oliebollen. Maybe a new box of Kleenex would help too, but, Lord a'mighty, on this very first day or yet another year, please pass the oliebollen.
Ring out the old, fry up the new.
Happy New Year from the deep-freeze. I'll start that diet tomorrow. I will.
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