One has to love the irrational exuberance of people who believe they’ve reached the finish line, the end of the worst possible 366-day period imaginable, as if the world will reset at midnight, as if waking up on January first will be waking up from a year long dream that was usually a nightmare, but was, at its best, a bizarre and incoherent (but emotionally-charged) dream.
I can’t help but wonder if 2021 will be the year in which…
–a ferry sinks in tropical waters, struck by an iceberg
–the virus will mutate on the eve of my vaccination day
–the drone of Brood X will get on last nerves, triggering a tsunami of riots
–a tsunami of water will wash away beachfront property
–there will be a plague of frogs [did we have one of those? I lost track.]
–aliens will land
–AI will make its move
–someone will misplace a thermonuclear warhead
It’s not that I’m a pessimist, I just don’t think Lady Fortuna will acknowledge Auld Lang Syne as stop sign, or as a bump in the road.