Dear 2010

Dear 2010,

I’m not very happy with you. I feel like you welshed on our bet, like you painted me a lovely picture but then took a giant dump right in the centre of the canvas, like you stole twelve whole months from me, twelve months I’ll never get back.

Shaking my fist at you, 2010.

Back in 2009 I thought we had something wonderful lined up. You made me all these promises of wealth and success. Held out bright glittering orbs of change which sparkled in pretty much any light. You were the end of the first decade of a new century, we were getting ourselves over terror, learning to live like real people again. Your numbers were so rounded and plump and did something I never imagined possible a few years back – they rid us of the dreadful scourge of digits of the year number as celebratory glasses thing. I got pretty excited about that last NYs, believe me!

2010, you were supposed to be the good witch. And now I’m standing here, looking at your ugly feet in shiny red shoes sticking out from under the bottom of the house that took a whole year to fall out of the sky. I’m very disappointed with you.

And it’s not just me, 2010. Don’t get me wrong, you screwed me round big time. Don’t think you need finish off our thing with a really big bang. But really 2010, there’s a whole bunch of people out there who are unimpressed with your shenanigans. You’ve been one long tragedy in so many ways.

It’s a week after Christmas and most of Eastern Australia is under swathes of dirty brown water, kids didn’t get to open presents ’cause their trees ended up in the attic. You spat out earthquakes in New Zealand, China, Indonesia, rampaging forest fires in the US, totally suckful blizzards across Europe, and don’t think we’ve forgotten that whole unpronounceable Iceland volcano thing – nice way to screw up global travel, 2010. You hid a new serial killer in your underpants, this one with a possible tally of nearly 200, and you expect us to appreciate this, 2010.

You have been the year that nobody wanted to have. That’s right, you were an accident and we wish you’d never been born 2010.

Pack your bags and leave now, 2010. I don’t want you hanging round and stinking the place up no more.

Sincere lack of regard,

Angela

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