Or maybe that's narcissism speaking -according to an article I scanned this morning over breakfast, the only thing keeping pace with the growth of narcissism in our society is the obesity epidemic. (Possible NY Resolution: stop reading).
So basically it's a giant, f*ck you, you're one year closer to death and so is everyone you love and also you are all fat.
Well played, universe, well played.
When presented with a universe-style fait accompli -or a person who is much, much better than you at pool- you have two choices. You can succumb, a gentlewoman to the end, dabbing on a chalk-colored smile as you dribble your balls, one by one, into the pockets (wait, who's winning here? Possible NY resolution: figure out what the heck is going on in pool).
Or, you can unclench your jaw, unloose a tigery howl, and slam that eight ball where the sun don't shine. (Possible NY resolution: do not assemble metaphors without instructions. Or Ikea furniture. Gingerbread houses also.)
For whatever reason (genetics, narcissism, crotchetiness, bad at pool), I prefer the contrarian approach. Dylan Thomas, Walter Matthau, Oscar the Grouch: these are people, my partners in perversity, and we'll be damned if we go gently into the good night or 2013 or Walmart. Rage, rage against the dying of the light! (Possible NY resolution: order lightbulbs online.)
In recent years, I've tried to surrender gracefully. But 2012 is almost gone, and I'm not going to take it anymore, time, you hear me?
Or, of course I am going to take it, but I'm not going to like it!
Take that, universe! And by "that" I mean my pool cue. It's not like I knew what to do with it.
Just don't take anything more. Not yet. Please.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.