Mother said I couldn’t walk downtown to watch the fireworks on New Year’s Eve because I might get jumped by Mexicans and sold to a Juarez cat house, but she says that every time I come within three feet of a door or window, so I climbed up to the roof and snuck out anyway.
The next morning found myself in the back of a Ford Taurus station wagon with a heavyset Asian gentleman on top of me, pawing at my crinoline skirt and new Mark Jacobs blouse. The possible wrinkles and dry cleaning bill alone would fill any woman with abject horror. Being a heavyset gentleman myself, I ended the confrontation by kicking my assailant into a lamppost and keying his car with one of my high heels.
For 2016, I wanted to resolve to give up writing completely so I could focus on fashion design, but mother said the cat would have nothing to read and would bother her at night. She suggested that I resolve to never leave the house, 24/7/365. I compromised by promising to confine myself to bed and not move at least eight hours a night for the entire year, diary permitting.