Jeff Wysaski
This is going to be the year that I finally get off my butt and learn how to shoot fireballs out of my eyes.
This is going to be the year that I help Dale lose weight by reminding him how fat he is every time I see him.
This is going to be the year that I finally write my great American novel – so long as there’s nothing good on the Internet to distract me.
This is going to be the year that I tell her I love her – and damn the consequences. It’s time to put up or shut up and prove to her that I’m a real man. So I’m going to put down the binoculars, step out from the bushes and knock on her bedroom window once and for all. And if she wants to bring up that whole restraining order business, then it’s her loss.
This is going to be the year that I listen to my coworkers and see what all this fuss about “hygiene” and “bathing” is about.
This is going to be the year that I stop snickering every time someone brings up my boss, Mr. Ballcock.
This is going to be the year that I stop trying to live up to my father’s impossible expectations. He’s just going to have to accept the fact that I’m not a magical flying elf that can grant him wishes, and I never will be.
This is going to be the year that I stop mixing up the words “there” and “their” in my work e-mails. Also, “meeting” and “masturbate.”
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