This year I am making no resolutions.
There may be things I need to change, but either I can't figure out what or I know I won't be arsed to do them. Or it could be that while I have physically recovered from The Flu, my brain is not really up for constructive, pro-active thought.
Plus it's sodding cold (anything below 40F is "sodding cold").
I have been meditating on these lyrics from Taylor Swift's Florida
Little did you know
your home's really only
a town you're just a guest in
There you are, thinking you're living somewhere that's home, and then you do something, or you stop following the herd, and suddenly it's just a town, any old town, and they think of you as just some tourist in a hotel room. Tolerated, not accepted; with no rights of residence, so move along now they're tired of you.
At least in Bob Dylan's Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues
If you're lookin' to get silly
You better go back to from where you came
Because the cops don't need you
And, man, they expect the same
we already know we're a tourist there, and can "go back to New York City". In Taylor Swift's song, we lose our home and have to sit out the "shit storm back in Texas" in that mythical land of escape, Florida.
