Bend over. This shouldn’t​ hurt a bit…

One of my most frequent yet least favourite dreams I have is that I am running late for a flight and I cannot find my passport. It stems from an actual incident that I told you about seven years ago.

Go ahead. Refresh your memory. Click here. I will wait.

I am still having that god awful dream but last year, it started to creep into my reality. That feeling of rushing to get to the plane on time.

2016 was pretty much my most bullshit year in the history of my being on the planet since 1973. It was bullshit for many reasons, but the runner up without really having to try at was 2019. It fucking jogged on in without breaking a sweat.

At the end of every year I have a recollection session with my Talking and Thinking Dr, Dr. Susan, and I tell her that the next year is going to be my BEST EVER AND THOSE GOALS THAT I AM YET TO MAKE ARE GOING TO BE SMASHED AND AIN’T NOTHING GONNA BREAK MY STRIDE….

She is a downer, Dr. Susan, who dishes out truth tablets like health farms do enemas. Slightly uncomfortable but makes sense.

After all, no one likes feeling like they are full of shit.

Dr. Susan tells me that the following year is not going to be my best ever yet, but it will be better than the last.


Last year sucked dogs balls, and I just stood there, from November, on third base waiting to slide into the new year for all those fresh starts the Instagram Influencers assured me would occur, especially if I paid $399 for their four week challenge. I was racing towards the home plate, chaffe well represented in the two areas that we both know suffer badly from them.

Them BOOM. it was 2020 and I ran towards home base.

Little did I know that the home base was made entirely of oil and dog shit and I just kept on sliding. I am still sliding…7 days later.

I promised the first blog post would be full up upbeat, peppy chat on how things are going to get better for everyone. Let me just take a break here.

If you don’t laugh, you will end up inconsolable.

So this ISN’T the blog post I wanted to be the first for the year. I would much rather regale you with tales of the ridiculous and the mundane, but until I got this turd piece of writing out of me, I would be wanting an enema of my own. And the very thought of them still frighten me.

Regular ridiculousness to recommence shortly.

How is this year going for you?