I'm severely depressed: at the beginning of every new year, I challenge myself to see how long I can go without mistakenly writing the

previous year.  For instance, 2018 instead of 2019.  Even though I don't really keep track year to year, I generally try to go as far into each new year as possible without slipping up, and to the point that writing the correct year becomes muscle memory or force of habit or second nature.
  Alas, this year, I thought I was on a roll.  Almost halfway into February, and I hadn't missed once.  I was sure I would easily slide into Randy D Hall of Self Fame history, chalking up a zero-defect year!  It was not to be. Just yesterday, I discovered that last week, on February 6th, I wrote 2018 as the date of an upcoming appointment at work.  I may just crawl out on a ledge an fling myself into the speeding traffic eight stories below.  Sigh.

*Disclaimer.
This post is merely in jest; I do not think this is either the most important thing happening in my life or in the world. Have fun with it.



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