I haven’t been myself this year as most of my closest friends can attest. At this time of year, there’s one core reason for my mis-misbehavior.

Apologies to everyone who was adversely affected by my physical and mental absence last week. Or perhaps, you are welcome.

Since I can remember, I have had an odd fixation on dates and times, trying to give them some kind of sentimental value. Useless things, too.

I recall the date my pudgy child fingers opened a Nintendo 64 box. I remember the time that Men in Black II started when I saw it in theatres. That was a horrible sequel, the kind of thing I’d want to have erased from memory.

This reoccurring tendency on timelines always has a peculiar effect on me every Jan. 1.

It starts with a melancholy reflection of what I’ve accomplished in the prior 365 days, amplifying my shortcomings and drowning out my feeble victories. This becomes a waterfall of tears soaking my jeans.

This always leads me to demand drastic changes of myself for 20-whatever, not without first neglecting all my duties to formulate a multi-step program of resolutions.

I made a lengthy list of life changes to start being marked by flipping open my next New York Firefighters calendar.

Nothing too absurd – Pursue my career goals, quit smoking, be more open to new experiences, be more friendly, stop using whack 90s slang like ‘you da bomb’ in airports and public forums, yadda yadda, blah blah blah.

All the stress of this rigid list kicked my nicotine cravings into action by 12:16 AM – The first failure of 2012.

I spent the next four days of the fresh year fretting on how I would assimilate these alterations by retreating to my dark cavern of a room, re-watching the entire senseless series of Lost, an homage to what had become of me by deciding to whirlwind my life in 2012.

The Lost part, not the time-traveling monster made of smoke. I resolved that situation last year.

Soon I realized I was inhibiting my advancement, so I quit being a depressive glutton to roll out of bed and head to my first classes. It couldn’t be worse than how I was wasting away.

December’s break from civilization must have made me think there is a shimmer of humanitarian hope in somewhere in my spinal fluids.

The first joke sputtered from the designated class clown’s mouth had me driving my forehead into the desk and crossing off more wishful thinking on my resolution list.

I may come off as a joker, but in classroom, I don’t do a George Carlin as much as, say, a Unibomber. I wear my sunglasses at night class.

Resolutions are set to try and better life, but when so much is piled on during a (my) drunken banter and missing the contemplative steps towards change, rarely a fighting chance for these new trends sticks around for long, a vicarious fact that I’ve succumbed to firsthand.

Trying to revolutionize my life as I know it has impeded me more than I anticipated, to the point that I’ve actually reversed my goals.

I’m proud to say I’m up to a pack and a half a day, I don’t even consider doing anything outside of my norm and greet fellow humans with a hardy single-fingered salute.

Now my only resolve has shifted to not making resolutions.

If you are going to set importance to the firsts, make it count and make is reasonable.

If you botched it up like I have, we have a second chance during Chinese New Year.