Dear 2011: I am going to massage your ass with exotic oils while feeding you hand-peeled grapes and telling you how wise and attractive and thin and youthful-looking you are

One year ago today, I told 2010 that I was going to whup its ass … and 2010 responded by putting on a pair of these and using my nuts as a speedbag … so I’m trying a different tack this time around.

This past year was, without a doubt, the single most unpleasant, difficult, overwhelming, foundation-shaking, depression-inducing, anxiety-provoking year of my entire life.

I know that the calendar is a man-made construct, and that the delineation between December 31, 2010 and January 1, 2011 is merely symbolic … but after the year I just had, I am more than happy to embrace — no, not just embrace; tongue kiss the symbolism of the most galactically fucked-up year I’ve ever lived through coming to a close, and a new year full of potential promise beginning.

Working in my favor is the fact that, unlike last year, I am not starting this year off in the throes of the deepest, darkest, longest period of depression I’ve ever experienced. So I’ve got that going for me.

With any luck, this year also won’t include panic attacks, job loss, an undisclosed family crisis, a major relocation and a tragic, unexpected death … among other things.

And even though slim are the odds of an equally similar pigfuck of a year taking place in 2011, I just want to make sure the coming year knows that the big-mouthed fool who threatened its predecessor would be more than happy to offer it the best fellatio its ever had in exchange for, at worst, an uneventful year, and, at best, a year as full of rainbows and unicorns as last year was of tragedy and despair.

So, whaddya say, 2011? Friends?

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