That’s right, I chased down 2011 in my headspace at about 1030 this morning. Here is the impromptu interview:
You look much like 2010. Is there a reason for this?
Dude, you imagine I’m supposed to look different all the sudden because of some arbitrary date has passed?
I hope for better things, as I cannot hope for better people in my life. Will this be so?
You sound like a greeting card philosopher.
Is that your final answer?
No. My final answer is: How the fuck should I know, asshat?
Is this the year I get a novel out there?
Might be. Might not. You should be writing something else instead of asking me these pointless questions.
Am I hung over?
I certainly hope so, as the quality of your questions is seriously lacking otherwise.
You always this grumpy?
You would be too, if you were birthed in an orgy of drunken idiocy and screaming. Not to mention those damn horns and bits of confetti. And then there’s knowing that just twelve months from now I’ll be put down with a bullet to the brain and forever after only remembered by whatever asshattery happened to occur while I was up at bat.
Well, why do the work if you hate it so much? I mean, I hear the Chinese Years are chomping at the bit to have your job.
Yeah, that’s what I need: a push to outsource my fucking job. I don’t hate the work, it’s you people I can’t stand. Fuck off. I’m out of here.