Resolution

A successful New Year's resolution shouldn't cause a panic attack.

Resolution-Revised

          The clock struck twelve, drowning out the feeble sounds of Winston's television, which was attempting to broadcast the distant, glittering chaos of Times Square. Winston sat amidst an Everest of discarded snack wrappers and three years' worth of magazine subscriptions he had never opened. He was exactly where he had been for the majority of the previous year: on the sofa, bathed in the blue glow of procrastination.

          "No more," Winston declared, his voice thick with the resolve that only deep dissatisfaction and four cans of artisanal sparkling water could produce. The calendar flipped from '2025' to '2026,' and with it, Winston underwent a dramatic, internal overhaul.

          "This year," he announced to the cat, Bartholomew (who was currently sleeping inside a discarded Amazon box), "I embrace optimization. I will become efficient, productive, and surgically minimalist. I will eliminate all non-essential clutter, physical or spiritual."

          Bartholomew twitched an ear in silent disbelief.

          Winston's Resolution #1 of 2026 was simple, terrifying, and absolute: The Great Purge. Anything that did not "spark immediate, demonstrable joy" or serve a crucial function was to be jettisoned. This wasn't Kon Mari; this was Kon-Mass-Annihilation.

          The next morning, Winston woke up brimming with a terrifying, short-lived surge of purpose. He downed a green smoothie that tasted suspiciously like regret and started the purge with the zeal of a newly converted zealot. The omniscient narrator notes, with a slight shake of the head, that Winston, a man who consistently microwaved popcorn for fifteen seconds too long and forgot to switch his laundry from the washer to the dryer ninety percent of the time, was biologically ill-equipped for surgical efficiency.

          The first six hours were a triumph of destructive efficiency. Winston stared at objects that had existed in the periphery of his life for years--a stack of chipped coffee mugs, an instructional manual for a Blu-ray player he no longer owned, three single socks that had achieved some quasi-sentimental status.

          Do they spark joy?

          "No," Winston hissed, tossing the socks. "They spark mild confusion and existential dread regarding the washing machine's appetite."

          He filled six industrial-sized garbage bags. The sheer volume of non-essentiality was staggering. He felt lighter, cleaner, spiritually upgraded. He was no longer someone who owned broken electronics; he was someone ready to conquer.

          The initial mistakes were minor and easily categorized as "acceptable collateral damage." The sweater his ex-girlfriend had left five years ago gone. The collection of bizarre commemorative spoons vanished. The emergency cash that was usually hidden inside the hollowed-out spine of the complete works of Shakespeare--oops, the book had been designated "unnecessarily bulky," and the money went with it. (A minor setback, he reasoned; it was only eighty dollars.)

          Then came the documents.

          Winston despised paper. Paper was the enemy of optimization. It bred ambiguity and demanded filing. Winston located a large, unsightly box labeled "Old Bills & Receipts."

          "What is this?" Winston muttered, rifling through ancient bank statements and grocery receipts from 2017. "Dust-gathering, energy-sapping historical artifacts! Into the abyss!"

          He grabbed the entire box, taped it shut with aggressive efficiency, and hurled it into the main 'Junk' pile. He felt a rush of power. This was freedom! This was minimalism!

          By 4:00 PM on January 1st, Winston's apartment was pristine, empty, and strangely echoing. The six garbage bags, plus the box of historical artifacts (containing, unbeknownst to him, his birth certificate, his car title, and the only functioning key to the communal storage pod downstairs, which held his winter tires and his great-grandmother's irreplaceable antique cuckoo clock), stood waiting by the curb.

          Winston settled down to enjoy his optimized existence. He had made coffee using his one remaining, beautifully aesthetic pour-over device. He opened his laptop to write, feeling the clarity of purpose flow through him.

          Then the email arrived.

          Subject: Mandatory Storage Locker Inspection - Tomorrow 9 AM.

          The email stated that, due to recent flooding concerns, all residents needed to immediately remove or elevate sensitive items from their basement storage units. Failure to comply would result in the building manager entering the unit, which, given the fact that Winston's unit contained sensitive family heirlooms, was unthinkable.

          Winston sprang up. He needed the key. The key was a specific, oversized silver fob attached to a small, wooden novelty key chain shaped like a miniature taco. He remembered putting it somewhere safe. Somewhere is too safe.

          He checked the usual places: under the sofa cushion (empty), the junk drawer (non-existent), and the little ceramic bowl by the door (now optimally empty).

          A cold dread began to form in his stomach, quickly morphing into icy cinematic panic.

          The taco keychain. He remembered clearing the junk tray on his desk, full of old receipts and random keys... just before tapping up the box labeled "Old Bills & Receipts."

          He rushed to the window. The curb was bare.

          The great, terrible, optimization-fueled truth hit him with the force of a speeding semi-truck. The weekly municipal garbage collection had been moved up due to the holiday.

          The trash was gone.

          "The Purge," Winston gasped, the green smoothie suddenly threatening a tactical retreat. "I purged the fundamental elements of my own existence!"

          Winston threw on a pair of unmatching shoes, grabbed his phone, and ran out of the apartment building like a man fleeing a low-budget zombie apocalypse.

          He spotted them three blocks away: the colossal, merciless white machine of municipal efficiency--the Garbage Truck, affectionately known by the sanitation crew as "The Devourer."

          Winston ran. He ran past confused dog-walkers and neighbors nursing champagne hangovers. He ran with a singular, desperate goal: to intercept the machine that held his car title, his grandmother's clock, and the legal proof of his own identity.

          "Wait! Stop! Optimization Emergency!" he screamed, waving his arms dramatically.

          The truck, rumbling toward its next stop, did not stop. It was programmed for speed, not existential crises.

          Winston rounded the corner and skidded to a halt directly in front of The Devourer just as it was preparing to ingest another set of curb bags. The air brakes shrieked.

          A massive man with a magnificent, salt-and-pepper mustache and reflective vest--the driver, Frank--leaned out the window, looking deeply unimpressed.

          "Happy New Year, buddy," Frank drawled. "Move. We're on a schedule."

          "I--I need my garbage back!" Winston panted, clutching his ribs.

          Frank looked at him as if Winston had just asked him to perform interpretive dance. "Son, that thing is full of half a city block's worth of expired cold cuts and failed dreams. You can't have it back."

          "Please! It's a box!" Winston pleaded, pointing wildly. "A square, taped-up box full of--of historical artifacts! And a tiny wooden taco key!"

          A second sanitation worker, Marty, emerged from the back, chewing gum and looking bored. "Did we just hit the 5K runner who lost his car keys?"

          "No, Marty," Frank sighed. "This is the guy who resolved to get rid of his entire life savings on January first."

          Winston, now fully embracing the humiliating farce, planted his feet. "That box contains the key to my storage unit! If I don't retrieve it, my great-grandmother's irreplaceable, highly fragile cuckoo clock will be ruined by tomorrow morning!"

          The mention of the cuckoo clock seemed to resonate. Frank and Marty exchanged a look that clearly communicated, Another one of these, but also, Old ladies and their clocks.

          "Alright," Frank conceded, rubbing his temples. "The compaction cycle hasn't run yet. We can open the back, but you're going in. And if you find a taco, you owe me coffee."

          What followed was the most anti-climactic, and simultaneously most horrifying, treasure hunt in Winston's life. Frank released the hydraulic pressure. The massive back door groaned open, revealing a cavern of compacted domestic failure.

          Winston climbed gingerly into the truck's massive hopper. The smell was transcendental--a bouquet of leftover curry, damp cardboard, and the faint, enduring aroma of broken dreams. He waded through plastic tubs and bags, scrambling over discarded Christmas wreaths and the detritus of a thousand forgotten projects.

          After five minutes of frantic digging, his hands covered in coffee grounds and suspicious sludge, Winston located it: the box, surprisingly intact amidst the chaos. He ripped the tape off, plunging his hand inside the paper graveyard.

          Gasping, he pulled out the wooden taco keychain. It was sticky, but glorious.

          He also, accidentally, retrieved the original printed copy of his novel manuscript, which he had thrown out in a fit of efficiency, deeming it "unnecessary until published."

          Winston scrambled out of the truck, victorious and utterly repulsive.

          "Success," he announced, holding up the slimy taco key.

          "Good work, Minimalist," Marty chuckled, closing the hopper.

          Winston stood on the curb, dripping garbage juice onto the pristine sidewalk of his optimized neighborhood. The resolution--to embrace radical efficiency and purge his life--had led to a confrontation with a garbage truck and a deep dive into the collective filth of his neighbors.

          He looked at the key, then at his manuscript, then at the box containing the car title.

          He hadn't simplified his life. He had nearly eliminated it.

          Winston walked slowly back towards his apartment. The apartment was still sterile and empty, but the feeling of lightness was completely gone, replaced by a profound, exhausted awareness.

          His new resolution, formulated at 5:00 PM on January 1st, was much simpler, much more achievable, and significantly less dramatic:

          Resolution #1 of 2026 (Revised): Buy a small, fireproof filing cabinet. Resolution #2 of 2026 (Also Revised): Never, ever attempt anything "radical."

Word Count: 1,583