I don’t specifically remember the final thing I did last night, but whatever it was I probably did it alone, like pulling off my clothes and passing out. Long night, lots of partying. Alcohol is suspected.
The first thing I did this morning was have sex. No, not alone. I enticed Guido back between the sheets when she walked through the bedroom. It’s traditional. You always want to start your year off on the right foot, or in this case, ass. She’d been up hours before me I even, um, arose. Arose by any other name is a hard-on.
One year we returned home after partying and found fresh dogshit all over the floor: New Year’s Eve fireworks scared the dog. We weren’t sure about this until the following Fourth of July. She’s older now, and has better control. Happy days.
I’ve been eagerly anticipating the end of 2010 since early February, when I got the prostate cancer diagnosis, and knew what I was in for. 2010 was largely a crappy year (speaking of dogshit) on several levels, but that was the lowlight. I’m not an optimist – unless holding the conviction as I do that Things Can Always Be Worse can be construed as optimistic – but I suspect 2011 will be better. I’ll do my best, but you know. Shit Happens. To continue the scatological theme.
Happy New Year, everybody.