An open letter to 2016
Dear 2016,
Thanks for nothing, jackass. You’ve taken a bushel of our favorite celebrities. Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds back-to-back? Really? Arnold Palmer, John Glenn, Alan Rickman, Gene Wilder, Prince, David Bowie, George Michael and Glenn Frey? And you had to take the ever-sweet Father Mulcahy (William Christopher from M*A*S*H) at the last moment just because you could. That’s just cruel. The in-memoriam section of the Oscars will take at least an hour. And the election? Not even going to bring that up. Our Facebook feeds are finally calming down. Except for Ohio State fans. They’re having a bad night tonight. You can’t even take credit for that slaughter.
We’re starting to believe that Mayans made a typo. They really meant 2016.
But you know what? Your final victim will be you. Soon you literally be history. 2017 will pull a Brutus and stab you in the back. Then it will take your place.
Finally.
We’ll wake up, count our blessings, write resolutions that we’ll ignore and eat food we only eat this time year — for luck. We’ll rub our scars, mourn our losses and move on. That’s what we do.
And I hate to break it to you, we’re stronger because of the challenges you threw our way. We’re grateful for that all all of our blessings. So thanks — now, we hope the door hits you on the ass on the way out.
Happy New Year,
Us.
The survivors of 2016