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Jesus Christ, is it really December 29? 2016?

Holy Christ, what am I to do.

2017 is screaming up into my rear view mirror, about to pass me and become the future. The new reality.

Another fucking year.

I am bone tired of it all. Wasted on trying to make sense of it all; make something out of my life.

Still, the prospect of change is thrilling. So easy to delude yourself that next year will be different. Much harder to take that delusion and make it reality.

I latched on to "Fairy Tale of New York" by The Pogues as a great Christmas song this year. Partly for the harsh expression of reality, partly for the honest expression of delusion we all employ.

"It was Christmas eve, babe, in the drunk tank, an old man said to me won't see another one."

The harshness of getting drunkenly arrested on Christmas Eve, the harsh truth of the old man admitting he will not live to see another Christmas.

I like the reality of that.

"Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you."

That line gets to my gut. Delusion. This year's for me and you.

We all do that at this time of year. Gonna be our year, babe. Things will turn around, we're finally gonna get the life we always wanted.

And one more year passes in dullness and disappointment.

Sameness.

I am hunkering down here. My brain is reeling with thought and anticipation. Some dread, a little bit of hope.

Desperation is a good word.

Of course that word applies to me on every January 1.

Thinking about insanity. Might have to get me some of that.

But I gotta get through the next three days first.

I get almost non-functional just before January 1. Feeling the pressure. Mentally shucking and jiving, swaying to and fro, indulging in delusion, hoping for results.

Gotta work today and tomorrow and that will feed my dark side. Get a lot of broken people shopping in the thrift store. You can tell by their faces, by their attitudes, by their comments, by the way they count change to pay for stuff.

Without drastic adjustment, that will be Carol and me before long. Got almost nothing by way of retirement. At some point, if things don't change, the house is the only thing that might save us. Assuming the real estate market cooperates.

Problem is I am not going to be an old man who relies on his kids for support.

Nor do I want them wiping my ass.

These are my thoughts on December 29, 2016.

Three days before I celebrate my 63rd birthday.

Fucking sixty three.