Bravo, again, the earth has once again managed to turn around his little star. To celebrate, the vulgus pecum decides to head fart to vodka or champagne, down the street, burning a few cars passing possibly to keep warm.
is a kind of rite of passage: the night of December 31 to January 1, you MUST have a party. And as always a thing imposed on me without my consent, well I am a deaf ear. No, I do not want to celebrate because REQUIREMENT. Christmas has much meaning for me, as the first year does absolutely none.
And of course, there is a consensus here that hypocritical to wish others a happy new year, best wishes, and health-because-that-c-do-that-he-ya-de-more-important-the-health. I no longer wish my wishes since 2008 to anyone, any more than I love myself that address. Anyway, as for most of you who read these lines, I do not really care whether or not you have a good year, we do not know after all. I wish you no harm, it is already good.
Last night we got a party of 2, as one does when one gets the chance, that is to say 3-4 times a year when we are lucky to have a weekend end-integer in common. And if it fell on March 12 or October 26, it would have been the same.
The first year, I do not care.
And Happy New Year my ass (P. Desproges).
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