The year is choking and bleeding out in its final hours. It strikes me as a bit off, how much kafluffle this generates, really. All the same objects are persisting in all the same trajectories, instant by instant, after all. Making heap powerful magic out of one of those instances seems a bit on the superstitious side, no? Tribal, in a way. A sort of wide-spread Rain Dance or something.

But as long as we are insisting on counting up time in chunks, we may as well dance about it, I suppose. Little enough to dance about these days If we're so damn good at inventing celebrations to honor the tick of time, why aren't we good at inventing sufficient grounds for celebration?

Just imagine! "Big party!! We just eliminated emphysema!". "Buy champagne!! The rain forest is back on a growth curve!!" "Hand out the noisemakers, Charley! We had zero violent deaths this month!!"

But nooo-ooo. We have to celebrate the stupidest arbitrary in our collective psyches, Time itself. Really, it is pathetic!

Happy New Year, Mom!!!!