Nobody Gives A Fuck About Your Resolutions

Cut the bullshit. Half of you have probably broken your New Year's resolutions already.

Face-planted into a pile of leftover Christmas cookies while desperately trying to convince yourself that tomorrow's the day you'll actually start your keto diet?

Yeah I thought so.

And the other half? You're all still riding that New Year's high, pretending that drinking green juice and sunning your asshole at dawn doesn't make you want to punch yourself repeatedly in the face.

At least not quite so much.

The Ancient Art of Being Full of Shit

Before I explain why you're destined to fail harder than a penguin in a hot dog eating contest, let's take a moment to understand why we even participate in this annual clusterfuck of false promises and delusional self-improvement bullshit.

Turns out, we humans have been screwing this pooch for thousands of years.

Back in 2000 BCE, the Babylonians—who clearly had too much time on their hands—invented this whole resolution clusterfuck during a 12-day festival they called Akitu.

Their big commitment? "I swear to the gods I'll pay back what I borrowed."
Basically, they’d created the ancient equivalent of promising your best mate you’d ship them some cash for that pizza they paid for last night.

Of course, the Romans had to get involved.

When Julius Caesar decided to reform the calendar and establish January 1 as the start of the year in 46 BCE, the practice took on a more formalised tone. They named it after Janus, their two-faced god of doorways and transitions—which is absolutely perfect, because making resolutions is basically just lying to yourself in stereo.

One face looked to the past, one to the future, and neither one had the decency to tell you to get your shit together. Romans would actually make promises in front of his temples, throw in some sacrifices (fruit, rams… the odd human), and exchange sweet treats for good measure.

Yup—they literally invented stress eating during resolution season.

The best part? These ancient Romans would spend the first day of January going around paying their debts, being nice to each other, and exchanging dates, figs, and honey as gifts. Basically, they created the original "new year, new me" performance art, complete with snacks and otherwise getting utterly shitfaced.

Past you is disappointed, future you is screwed, and present you is too drunk to care.

By the time Christianity jumped on the crap-wagon, they turned it into watchnight services. "Please, God, help me stop being such a colossal ass-hat." became the medieval version of "This year I'll definitely meal prep and no longer order UberEats five times a week."

Nobody Has Ever Stopped Ordering UberEats

Fast forward to now, and we've turned this whole thing into a capitalism-fueled orgy of self-loathing and hatred.

We've managed to turn ancient religious practices into a reason for your local fitness centre to lock you in to paying 63 bucks a month to not go to the bloody gym in the first place.

According to research (yes, some poor bastard studied this shit), 80% of resolutions fail faster than your last relationship.

By February, your "new year, new me" becomes "same shit, different year" with such predictability that you could almost set your fucking watch to it.

But deep down in that place where you hide all your other uncomfortable truths (like the fact that you still don't know how to fold a fitted sheet), you know resolutions are complete and utter horseshit.

But wait! Maybe being a failure isn't the worst thing in the world.

Maybe—and stick with me here—the problem isn't that we make resolutions.
It's just that we make utterly fucking stupid ones.

How to Fail Less Spectacularly
(A Guide for the Perpetually Screwed)

Still here? Fine. Here's some actual advice.

Start smaller than your dating standards. Instead of "I'm going to revolutionise my entire existence," try "I'm going to wear pants with actual buttons at least three times a week." Baby steps, you know?

Make it so specific that even your last two brain cells can track it. "Get my shit together" isn't a goal – it's a cry for help. "Stop using my treadmill as a clothes hanger" is something you can actually measure.

And for fuck's sake, stop waiting for January 1st like it's some magical portal to competence.

You can start getting your shit together any time. Wednesday at 3 PM? Perfect. During your cousin's wedding? Why the hell not?

Rock bottom has no schedule.

Just Embrace Being a Hot Mess

The stone-cold truth is that nobody gives a flying fuck about your resolutions.

Not your friends, not your family (they're all too busy breaking their own after all), and definitely not your therapist (but they’ll listen while planning their next vacation with the money you pay them).

Your resolutions aren't sacred promises to the universe—they're drunk texts to your future self that you'll leave on read.

And guess what? That's perfectly fucking fine.

This year, try something revolutionary. Be honest with yourself. Don't set any goals at all. Just try to be slightly less of a dumpster fire than you were yesterday.

And if you've already broken your resolutions?

Welcome to the club. We meet at the bar every wednesday, toast to being perfectly imperfect disasters, and pretend our liver isn't crying for help.

The Babylonians had their gods, Romans had Janus, and we have TikTok influencers telling us how to live. But you know what none of them had? The courage to say "fuck it" to the whole self-improvement industrial complex and just exist without trying to optimise every goddamn second of their lives.

Because at the end of the day, we're all just winging it through life, and maybe—just maybe—accepting that fact is the only resolution worth making.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go do some day drinking.
Because it's 5 o'clock somewhere, and I refuse to let time zones be the boss of me.