It is coming, another big year.
2020. The number is attractive to the eye. A certain symmetry. I am fabricating my version of 2020, a kind of wish list or wishful predictions as follows:
#1: That is the ticket as featured below. Let it be. (Added wish: Joe does not do the word-salad thing during debates with the Donald.)
#2: Fake jobs included in our seemingly hot economy and low unemployment rates will be replaced by creative pursuits that produce more than t-shirts, tech-toys, car mats, and desperation.
#3: I will turn 65 and refuse to sign up for Medicare because I stumbled on to the secret to healthy immortality.
#4: Shepherd Smith will take over the Fox News propaganda machine and Donald's 63 million will come to their senses, actually seeing and hearing what is really there.
#5: The ASPCA will have nothing to do because cruelty to animals will cease to be.
#6: All men will embrace the untucked aesthetic and none shall sound like Larry the Cable Guy.
#7: All women will decide to relax and use their bodies like athletes and not give a damn about SPANX.
#8: I will finally buy a house so I can stop complaining about how annoying the condo-world is during vacationer season.
#9: Genetic therapy will rock something amazing out.
#10: Pope Francis, Pitbull, and Kim Kardashian will form an unlikely alliance and save us all from _____________________ (fill in the blank . . . they can do it all).
What do you think, dear you?
Here is to 2020 and the art of the possible.
Love,
Joyce XO
