One has to love the irrational exuberance of people who believe they've reached the finish line, the end of the worst possible 366-day period imaginable, as if the world will reset at midnight, as if waking up on January first will be waking up from a year long dream that was usually a nightmare, but was, at its best, a bizarre and incoherent (but emotionally-charged) dream.
I can't help but wonder if 2021 will be the year in which...
-a ferry sinks in tropical waters, struck by an iceberg
-the virus will mutate on the eve of my vaccination day
-the drone of Brood X will get on last nerves, triggering a tsunami of riots
-a tsunami of water will wash away beachfront property
-there will be a plague of frogs [did we have one of those? I lost track.]
-aliens will land
-AI will make its move
-someone will misplace a thermonuclear warhead
It's not that I'm a pessimist, I just don't think Lady Fortuna will acknowledge Auld Lang Syne as stop sign, or as a bump in the road.
