I am not too fond of resolutions; no, that has nothing to do with some horrible incident that happened to me as a child. I didn’t become a serial killer because I failed to keep up with my resolution–it is quite the opposite, actually…I became a serial killer for an entirely separate reason.

Kidding. I am kidding. Take a joke.

Resolutions are the poor man’s laundry list, the tasks by which he must improve his life and shove the old life, like a Christmas bag of steaming hot coal, into the dumpster and forget about it…forget about it…forget about it!

I don’t do resolutions well. I don’t say them aloud to myself, nor to any members of my family or friends; and, as a matter of fact, that is the number one reason all of the world fails at committing to their resolutions. It’s like a relationship: if you keep it locked away from the public eye–not saying that’s a bad thing–because you’re not serious about it…well, you can go ahead and return the engagement ring and/or the wilted flowers.

When I attended Taekwondo, a Korean martial art, every Christmas our class broke boards–these are thick boards, too; at least two inches in depth–and on the front each member had to write a New Year’s resolution. Some were challenging; and as I sit there watching people read aloud I am thinking to myself, “Boy…I am so glad I did not have to write  a resolution.”

Did I mention only the members who were testing for stripes wrote resolutions?

Yours truly was not the best tester. It’s not as if I didn’t practice–I did what I could with two hours after school and before dinner time; slapped myself in the back with nunchucks; hit my nose so bad I thought I broke it with this tall metal staff. I still have it. It’s badass–super badass.

Yes, I sat and watched and talked to my friends; but never did I consider writing a resolution. I was twelve. I thought they were boring! Seat yourself at a table and pencil out a method of self improvement–yawn, give me a TV remote and a disc of The Greatest Hits of Spongebob, love that little square. I sat and screwed around with my brown belt…real mature stuff coming from a kid whose mother was performing a badass double nunchuck routine, making spinning helicopters and crap…

You expect me to have changed; but, sorry to disappoint, I am the same immature twelve year old who disregards resolutions and would rather stare at the sun instead of writing anything close to that on a piece of paper.

Wait, I lied. I’m seventeen now.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

Note: Thanks for noticing last week’s post about bullying. I had no idea putting myself out there so blatantly could be received so well. I hope you all had a Happy New Year and watched the ball drop…or drank a lot and passed out at midnight. Either way…