To the next twelve years

 A dozen.

There's something special about a dozen. I can't think of any other numbers other than 12 that have their own word attached to it. Oh sure 13 is a Baker's Dozen, but it's derived from its predecessor. 

There's no word for 9 of something. Your daughter could have 9 pieces of dirty laundry scattered about her room. You can't say, "would you please pick up this filthy _______ and put it in the hamper like a grown adult." 

No, you're more likely to say, "shouldn't you and your friends be looking for an apartment somewhere?"

In any case, today we have completed a dozen years of RoundSeventeen blogging. Other than staying married and being fat most my life, I've never done anything for that length of of time. I attribute that to my short attention span and my rather juvenile nature.

Twelve years is a lot of writing. Close to 2500 posts, counting the ones I've hastily deleted for various reasons: shame, self-loathing and employment background checks. 

I've written a lot of stupid stuff here. I did a week-long series on "People Who Need to Die." Admittedly it was written with tongue firmly planted in cheek and in the hyperbolic style of Jonathon Swift, but still, not my best moment.

Nor was my over the top reaction to the many incidents of global Islamic terrorism, which we can all agree needs to be eliminated and prosecuted. But sadly, in many cases, I went too far. Not proud of that. 

But I am proud that I have evolved on the matter and not just to distance myself from the rampant hate generated by Precedent Shitgibbon. Isn't it ironic that today the greatest threat to America comes from homegrown domestic terrorism?

And of course, I've done a lot of experimentation here on RoundSeventeen. Most have failed, but some have come fruition and made the successful leap from the digital world to the dusty bins found inside several garages, including The Big Book of Rants and Mr. Siegel Writes to Washington.

And who can forget my series of Drunken Haiku? Whereupon I sat myself down with a bottle of Jack Daniels, and channeling the spirit of Bukowski purposely got sloshed and tried to sling some 5-7-5 nonsense on the page. Counting syllables and mediocre Tennessee bourbon simply do not mix.

Thanks are in order for the 8 (again, no word) regular readers who, for reasons unknown, still come to RoundSeventeen for a daily dose of....frankly, I don't know what you'd call this. I still haven't figured out how to read the Google analytics, but I know unlike George Tannenbaum's blog, the readership has fallen off. 

I'm fine with that. Perfectly fine with that. The natural drop off has even happened in my own home.

"Deb, did you read today's blog?"

"Do I have to?"