And may it be better than mine, which has been spent getting a bumper replaced, getting sick, infecting all my friends, and being cut off from my beloved Intarwebz for a week and counting.
The infection of all my friends was worth it, though. I got to make a few new ones (and infect them, too.) And to see Erin again, for the first time in months. I watched the MST3K remix of Raiders of the Lost Ark and the ball drop on Times Square through the pain and fever.
And about a half hour before that, we broke out some bottles and started a few rounds of very geeky toasts.
Not alcohol. Erin's a disgrace to her Irish ancestors, and gets visibly tipsy when she drinks nonalcoholic beverages. But yeah - several bottles of sparkling cider.
To health. (This was mine. It was lame, but appropriately ironic given my infectiousness.)
To Grandfather Nurgle, the Chaos Lord of Plague and Disease. (This was the one that followed me.)
To cat macros.
For the love of God and all that is holy (Adam's toast, prompted by having one of the cloud-guys on my shirt. Not his actual words, but better.)
To our friend, the Weighted Companion Cube.
To cat ears.
To surrealism (Fox's) - we argued back and forth about more or less.
To the two-term limit (Rob's.)
To stability. (Rob's. And mine.)
And, on the way home with Dayquil in my system, one that I said to Fox:
To surrealism and justice.
May your times be interesting and your world be better in the new year.