#huskshottakes

I don’t get the whole “New Year, New Me” thing. What’s wrong with the old you? Aside from the crippling anxiety and questionable decisions, but hey, those build character. You think swapping donuts for kale and waking up at 5 AM to meditate is gonna make you a better person? No. It’s just gonna make you hungry and tired. Congratulations on setting yourself up for failure.

And don’t even get me started on gym memberships. Every January, gyms get flooded with people who wear matching workout sets and think sweat is just “glitter leaving the body.” Give it two weeks before those treadmills are collecting dust again. You’re not committed, you’re just guilty about all the pie you ate in December. Own it.

Honestly? Resolutions are just socially acceptable self-loathing. You don’t need a new year to change, you need therapy, a nap, and maybe a stronger drink. But sure, go ahead, promise yourself you’ll be different this time. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re crying into a pizza by February.

Happy New Year. I’ll be at the bar if anyone needs me, and no, I’m not sharing my whiskey.

♣️♦️♠️♥️

Most people hate their jobs, but at least they can quit. Me? Nah. My boss owns my fucking soul. Can’t call out sick, can’t put in my two weeks, hell, I can’t even take a bathroom break without him ‘checking in.’ And by ‘checking in,’ I mean showing up out of nowhere like a smiling cryptid and asking if I’m ‘enjoying myself.’

No, Alastor, I’m not.

And listen, I get it, he owns my soul. Fine, whatever. But maybe we can renegotiate a few things? Like, I don’t know, hours? Or basic respect? Or maybe a clause that says he can’t hum creepy radio jingles behind me while I’m working? Just a thought.

Four days in and I’ve already heard ‘new year, new me’ more times than I’ve been paid in tips. Newsflash—changing the date doesn’t change the mess. You’re still you, and the year’s still garbage. Seriously, this year is a joke already.