Resolution

Who in hell thought up this peculiar
practice? Like somehow the beginning
of a new year is some kind of meaningful
milepost, like those markers they mete out
at precisely demarcated intervals along
the interstate, when all it really is
is a vagary dependent upon an artificial
measure of the span of time required
to circle the sun, approximately, which
we commemorate with hang-overs
and parades and football games. Nothing
a Bloody Mary and few aspirin can’t
cure. Drink lots of water. That said, I
can make a few resolutions—after the past
seven years, I swear to Christ and anything
else I hold even mildly sacred, I won’t—
and I mean not never—vote for a Republican
for president. May someone shoot me
right between the eyes if I even think about
breaking that one. I resolve to get angry
less and drink beer at least as often. I heartily
resolve never to make another resolution
unless somebody, somewhere, resolves
to pay me a large sum of money to lie.