Pizza, check. Baby, check.
Let’s call it quits people. Enough with the resolutions already. We are not even a full month into a new year, and almost everyone I know has failed miserably. Just look at my co-worker, Judy. She said she would lose at least 50 pounds to put her diabetes in check. January is almost over and she’s lost like a pound. I bet most of it was from that mole she got removed. It was huge. God, bless her for trying.
I’ll get right to the lead mozza-followers… This year I can’t fail. I know. I know, resolving to do something is my biggest weakness.
There were years past where I choked on my resolution like most women do on my manhood. Sorry, it is a simple truth. Let me drop another truth bomb on you. I’ve broken every resolution since I made the first one in 1996. I promised I would stop killing my Tamagchi for the fun of it. It’s not like I was worried about developing a weird desire to kill, but I am white, male, and sweat when sitting down. In the eyes of the world I am pretty much a serial killer. I had to drop any and all signs of becoming a mass murder. My sobriety from starving my pixelated pal lasted all but a week. Then, I let the good times roll until I got my first dial up internet connection and some therapy. Since the “Summer of Samagachi,” as my mom called it, I have broken every resolution. But let’s face the facts, “Honky Tonk Ba-Donk-A-Donk” is nearly impossible to not dance to (I hate to deprive the world of these moves — Kazaam, I’m like jumpin’ jack flash!)
