There comes a moment, dear reader – usually sometime between the third whiskey and the creeping suspicion that the universe is laughing at you rather than with you – when a person must plant a flag in the scorched earth of his own life and declare, loudly, profanely, and with the kind of reckless optimism that borders on a diagnosable condition, that next year will be different.

And by Christ, 2026 is going to be different.  This is the year I ascend.  This is the year I transcend the mundane filth of mediocrity and carve my name into the bedrock of history with a rusty spoon if I have to.
Resolutions are usually the lies we tell ourselves to stave off the crushing weight of our own inadequacy, little sticky notes of hope we slap onto the refrigerator of our souls.  “Eat more kale.”  “Call mom.”  “Stop arguing with strangers on X about the socio-economic implications of Freddy Got Fingered.”  Pathetic.  No, my resolutions for 2026 are not mere suggestions; they are commands issued from the burning bush of my own ego.  They are tripartite, a holy trinity of self-actualization that will either kill me or make me a god.

1. Sell the Goddamn Book
   The publishing industry is a shark tank filled with people who wear scarves indoors and use the word “synergy” unironically.  I hate them.  I need them.  My resolution is to sell this damn thing…to force some poor, unsuspecting editor at a major house (expect a phone call, Luke) to look at my genius and weep tears of joy and terror.  All the folks on X have been wondering why I’m going the traditional publishing route rather than self-publishing.  Their arguments are compelling.  And one never knows.  One thing is certain: Ima get paid!

2. Get My Black Belt
I’ve been training for years, and I now have a red belt – the one before black. I can disarm a knife- or gun-wielding lunatic before my morning coffee and fight my way out of an attempted bear hug from a Russian mobster built like a refrigerator, all while composing a pithy inner monologue.  Though the red belt is pretty sexy, I want the belt that says: this man has kicked enough metaphorical and literal ass to be dangerous in polite company.  The belt that requires sweat, blood, bruises, discipline, and the occasional moment of clarity while face-down on a dojo mat.  By the end of 2026, I want to tie that thing around my waist and feel the quiet, smug satisfaction of someone who has weaponized his body and his attitude.

3. Become Unbeatable at Chess
I’ve been locked in an all-out blitzkrieg campaign to drag my chess game out of the primordial ooze and up onto Grandmaster Beach all year, and honestly, the results are frightening – for my opponents, anyway.  Heh.  Gone are the days where I’d blunder a rook because I was too distracted plotting my next snack run.  This year was about openings, endgames, tactical drills that melted my corneas, and embarrassing a fair few cocky strangers (and at least one exceptionally smug AI that now twitches at the name Carlsen).

But 2026?  That’s the year I bring utter annihilation to the 64 squares. Frankly, I’m tired of losing to online avatars with names like “KnightDaddy420.”  I’m coming for your bishops, your pawns, your dignity.  I will turn trash talk into an art form, sprinkle humiliations like confetti at a Soviet New Year, and my Queen’s Gambit will haunt your dreams.  Prepare to be obliterated.
So, dear reader, wish me luck.  Or don’t.  I’ll do it anyway.
Here’s to 2026: the year I sell the book, earn the belt, conquer the board, and generally behave like a man who refuses to accept the small, quiet life the universe keeps trying to hand him.
Raise a glass.  Light a fuse.  Kick the damn door in.  We’re coming in loud.

N.P.: “Kiss This” – The Struts