Tuesday, January 01, 2002

New Year's Day

Thank God 2001 is over. What a fucked up year.
Last night I skipped the whole rigmarole.
I stayed in and drank Cokes and watched 40 episodes of Sex and the City.
I have no hangover, no need to call anyone and apologize for anything I said or did last night, no regrets.
The street outside my house today is littered with fireworks remains.
It sounded like Afghanistan outside last night. They were blasting off those big ass, sky-filling chrysanthemum fireworks, detonating what sounded like small sticks of dynamite, shooting off whizzing things, concussion bombs, the works.
My neighborhood must be filled with men who have minuscule penises, to prompt such an ostentatious show of firepower.
I can only imagine what it would have been like if fireworks were legal inside city limits.
Even my ne'er-do-well handyman called me yesterday to see if he could borrow some money to buy some fireworks. I said, "Robert, think about what you are asking. One does not borrow money so he can purchase fireworks."
He must have wanted to celebrate being such a fucking pendejo.
All I know is, I was perfectly happy to bring in the new year with just one bright sparkler.

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