Ack, I don’t even have anything witty to say. I just love that line–“Good girls gotta get down with the gangsters”–in Beyonce’s new song and have been looking for an excuse to use it. Is “This post cannot help but be boring, better spice up the title” a good enough excuse?
Join with me, dear reader, as we find out.
Anyway, last night, I had dinner with my dad at the O’Charley’s in Hermitage. Then, I dropped him off at his hotel, watched as he, a small man in a bowler, shuffled towards the door, with his hands full of pop and snacks, and headed on home.
I took the long way–around Briley Parkway–since it had been so long since I’d driven a car. There were quite a few cops out and one person in a Mazda, who was driving just a little faster than me, and chain smoking, as the ends of cigarettes kept flying out his window and hitting the road in front of me, sending flashes of yellow and red across the pavement.
I keep thinking that I ought to make some kind of New Year’s resolution. I normally don’t. I don’t like participating in large group activities and choose to keep my own superstitions in my own way. But I feel good and hopeful, lately.
And so, I think I’m going to resolve to choose to be happy. Or at least to practice being happy.
We’ll see how that goes.