Considering that the majority of resolutions are associated with signing up to weekly meetings at Weightwatchers and seeing not only the pounds but the pounds lurking inside your bank account fly off (has anyone ever bothered to check out the price for a slimmers-friendly cake at the supermarket?), I, as a pear-devouring teenager, am left with an empty-looking list of resolutions which either don't strike any remembrance within myself halfway through the year or simply aren't worth the inevitable ache which shoots through my stiffer-than-an-upper-lip hand whilst taking the oh-so-precious time to use a pen instead of revealing my thoughts and uploading half-blurry pictures of my dozing kittens onto Whatsapp - in all honesty, what is the point of using a rainbow-coloured piece of purse-splurging paper to jot down your so-called 'wishes' when the need for it never arises?
Despite what I would define as marvellous in relation to my writing skills (three paragraphs in and I already sound like a garish-appearing, lipstick-smothered pantomime queen), I guess that my intelligence falls below a racked-up high water meter as soon as the thought of producing a list of resolutions pops into my head; as is my temper-maddening tendency to fly into a breathless panic over forgotten French words during the lesson-free holidays, the typically unpleasant idea of hiding in my parents' wardrobe suddenly seems appealing when I'm faced - or choose to face - the difficult task of dealing with resolutions which barely make a dent on my life. The nearest that my tea tree-emitted hands have reached to a potential 'success' is avoiding to fall into the clutches of donning an ugly, baby-inspired onesie (if your lucky stars have certainly kept you in the dark from Britain's scream-inducing trends, please do not google any pictures for an animal-themed onesie, which is basically a romper suits for brainless adults without an ounce of knowledge as to Dior's more refined existence), yet in comparison to deciding to wait another year to take a French exam, steering clear of the most embarrassing outfit of the year, if not the whole century, doesn't necessarily strike one as a massive achievement, does it?
Nah, it didn't ring any deafening bells to splash out on holding an extravagant party complete with a chart-topping album from this current decade blaring noisily from the music player (apart from Americana-style Lana Del Rey and Lorde's catchy lyrics and even more intriguing vocals, my music tastes have preferred to stay clear of chipmunk-sounding artists and potty-mouthed rappers), but at least I managed to stay true to my wish for an entire year and possibly the rest of my life - unless the world had been taken over by aliens with a particular penchant for panda-hooded onesies (alongside celebrity-promoting selfies and tongue-waggling images conjured by twerking diva, Miley Cyrus, the term 'onesie' has just won a prestigious place on my pet hates list), I think that I'll remain relatively sane as long as my beloved Swiss Milka bars all but cease to exist across the cheap chocolate-relishing world.
So, in case that a crystal ball has not yet made my point, well, crystal clear, New Year's Resolutions just don't bring out the best within my achievement-loving self because there simply isn't anything which needs to be changed. Perhaps my brother, who has surpassed last year's record by receiving top-notch pinches and numerous playful punches towards the walnuts area from the one and only (moi, of course!), would argue against my statement, though I strongly stand beside my beliefs that I am entitled to air my views whenever necessary and called for - I don't just hand over the TV remote, whilst also giving up my movie-viewing freedom, for a football match without a form of payback, do I? In all honesty, the sole reason for which I remained at a crumbless table for fifteen minutes last New Year's Eve was to purely use up some free time before the clock struck midnight; bearing in mind that I'm a mere teenager whose closest experience to life is entering a melancholy sulk after being unable to come across any clothes during an one-day-only free shipping promotion on the Forever 21 website, creating a list of needless resolutions doesn't confirm an upcoming year of blissful happiness and continuous peace from my Dalek-voiced brother (especially when The Match to beat All Matches has drawn him towards the sofa for the entire duration of a tensely felt afternoon), regardless of the spirit-raising hope it may bring upon my attitude towards establishing several aspirations which may or may not stand a good-looking possibility of being fulfilled. Therefore, two of the last few lessons which I'm guaranteed to learn on the last day of 2013 are to never avoid jotting out a list of unreasonable and fantasy-like resolutions for the sake of it and keep clear of any pens around an hour before the new year arrives in explosive style!
Anyway, resolutions are obviously not the be- and end-all of celebrating a New Year, which offers hope and the opportunity to adapt a new approach towards anything; personally, I aspire to write a new story and progress further than my previous one, and keep my head buried in my studies for possibly the rest of my life! Oh, and taking as many pictures as possible of my ever-growing kittens throughout the whole year is an unignorable order!
For your sake and potentially the users of social-networking websites, please play it cool if any invites to late-night parties have evoked a fascinating Fanta-slurping animal within your typically placid nature: as usual, a film and pretty lights will play a part in my New Year's celebrations, alongside a whopping headache and remarkable hunger the following morning.
Happy New Year (in fourteen hours' time) 2014!
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