Well, it’s a week into 2025, and let’s just cut the bullshit right here, right now. Fuck it, 2026 will be my year. 2025 is just not it.
Just thirteen minutes into the new year, I knew the next twelve months were toast. I drunk-texted my ex, we’ve all been there, right? Well, she just unloaded this huge update on me. Turns out the new guy popped the question when the ball dropped and they’re getting hitched in February. That’s Valentine’s Day already messed up. Clearly the first week of 2025 was not the right week to quit Big Macs. Also drinking.
I figured I would just take a knee for the week and go at me new year new me plan full force on January 8th, but wouldn’t you know it, my mom texted me. Turns out my brother wiped out his student loans and got a huge promotion on his first day back after the holidays, and instead of just being happy for him she had all sorts of questions about when I was going to “make something” out of myself. Well Mom, right now as a matter of fact, but since you decided to trigger me like that it looks like another week of Big Macs and booze for me! Also lethargy.
Just looking at this upcoming year, I should have known this would not be the one. I just checked the calendar and my birthday, June 13th, is on a Friday this year. What a fucking drag. Call me superstitious, but to me that’s just a bad omen that says another lazy year of booze and Big Macs. Also, pretty sure I’m losing my job.
My whole plan in 2025 was nonstop entrepreneuring, but all of my ideas are falling apart right before my eyes. Like making a mini-golf chain called “Golf of America,” that ain’t happening now.
Oh, well. 2026 is for sure gonna be my time to shine. I’ll get to work on a bunch of ideas that’ll pay off by 2030. Maybe do some crypto investing with my newfound fortune around 2032. By 2036…maybe 2040-ish…you’ll be sorry you ever doubted me.