I will write at least fourteen books which will have spectacular author photos on the back covers, at least one of which will be me, in which I will be laughing while looking downward, as though to say ‘Oh goodness, that is very droll.’
I will not pout for three holes when my favorite pink ball Pinky Lee goes ploonk into a water hazard.
I will no longer name my golf balls.
I will not tell my friends about the dream I had where I was a contestant on Survivor and it came down to me and a guy and instead of having the losers vote on which of us should win the million dollars, they had us do a final challenge, which was to “artfully eat these Popsicles” and when I steamed up my Popsicle so much that it broke into pieces and I asked for a fresh Popsicle, the judges unanimously awarded me a million dollar check and also a Jeep Cherokee, and then I won’t look at my friends and say “Do you think that symbolizes anything?”
When I pick up a book like Mystic River and find that I hate the writing style and it is annoying the shit out of me and I already can hear the swelling orchestra of impending lifelong sorrow warming up in the background and then put it down and let it sit on my nightstand for two years until the pages start to swell from the time I left the window open and some rain came in, I will not waste two (hundred) hours of my life watching a movie adaptation of said book like Mystic River because when the bad part comes (and I’ll know that it’s going to come because somewhere in the tenets of nature itself lies the rule ‘Tim Robbins is never evil’ and to go against that rule would cause complete and utter world annihilation, except when Nick Hornby is involved which makes irrelevant said rule because Nick Hornby is the devil) I will not be able to rely upon making my eyes go blurry or looking at the wall opposite the television screen or even just hitting the first button for forward. No. I will have to hit the button for forward like fourteen times or something and then when I start to play at normal speed again, I will just wonder why, why, why god why and also hate Clint Eastwood a little bit.
I will simply admit that I am powerless to keep the “Schoolhouse Rock” songs from getting stuck in my head.
I will figure out which is right, leaving the punctuation in front of or behind the quotation marks. I think it’s right to keep them inside the quotes, but it looks totally stupid that way.
Instead of looking at the Kate Spade purse longingly over the internet and hoping that it sends me a note saying \”Do you like me? Check box [ ] YES [ ] NO\”, I’m just going to break down and buy the damn thing.
When I have a perfectly wonderful Boca fake chicken patty sitting in the freezer at work and a lovely wheat bun ready at the hand, I will not opt for what is behind Door #3 in the vending machine because the only thing that seems even remotely edible (‘Chuckwagon Sandwich’ is just vending people code for ‘whatever weird lunch meat we had lying around that didn’t smell too disgusting’ right?) will be a bacon cheeseburger, which would never even be in contention on a normal day. And at this point, I will remember that I do in fact have a choice and not put my $1.50 into the machine like some mindless drone because what I will end up with is a disturbingly grease-sodden gristle puck that still tastes of industrial grade limp bacon even after I peel it off. Because I am not stupid, contrary to my behavior this afternoon.
Likewise, I will never again make anything out of a box which is labeled anything Helper. Believe me, it doesn’t help. If anything, it beats your food up and takes its wallet. People who eat Anything Helper should look for help elsewhere.
I will read more classics this summer, including at least one Austen and one Vonnegut.
I will not lose my new journal, as it has been five months and I don’t think I’ve stopped grieving for my last one.