So. Here we are. Again. And this time the apocalypse was narrowly avoided. But was it? WAS IT?
2016 has been such a bloody year.
David Bowie, Prince, Alan Rickman, Carrie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds, George Michael... the Oscars 'In Tribute' section will take up hours and hours next year. HOURS. And yeah, I understand that the older we get the more people we grew up with will die but come on. George was 53. Carrie was 60. We're hardly talking solely about Liz Smith (95) or Zsa Zsa Gabor (99).
Toblerone was messed with, Brexit happened. Trump. TRUMP!
By that point in the year I was just resigned to it. I thought that Brexit would not happen. Because I am a naive idiot. I've since learned my lesson and realise that actually people really are idiots. Sigh.
In more personal news I moved out and became a real, actual, fully-functional adult. So. That's a thing. I'm still not a woman who smiles at salad but I moisturise when I remember to and I made a reception desk happen in my new office. I even coordinated some IT stuff and rearranged the stationery. Take comfort in the little victories. No one's getting out of here alive, guys. So embrace life and tell the bad feelings to bugger off.
I'm not suggesting that this is the most effective way of dealing with depressive moods but it's kinda fun and that's what counts.
My friend Susan and I have a theory that odd-numbered years are better than even-numbered years (we all need something to cling to in this life) so 2017 should be great. Also, I like the number 7. I'm the 7th child and I'm obviously the best offspring so that's solid.
So come on 2017. Just be mildly better than this year. It's not a lot to live up to.
We can do it.
Also, this year I will be able to play Singstar at my own flat, with my Singstar flatmate friend and will not have to get an Uber or free tube home. And if that ain't worth being excited about then I don't know what is.