New Year’s Eve. Wife Betty and I imbibe champagne, year before us nascent. It’s the year we hope to pay off bills. Make dents in student loans. Rediscover our old quirks, our fondness for Tolstoy, making love to Tchaikovsky. It’s supposed to be the year of small luxuries. An HBO subscription, bottle of wine.
We toast to joy and crushing constraints on our lives.
A week later: We toast to dysfunction. Bills are piling up, toilet’s burst. We need to fix the damn drywall. We can at least drink. Laugh at idiocy together.
There’s always next year for happiness.
We toast to joy and crushing constraints on our lives.
A week later: We toast to dysfunction. Bills are piling up, toilet’s burst. We need to fix the damn drywall. We can at least drink. Laugh at idiocy together.
There’s always next year for happiness.
