I am a communist. I do not care for Americans. Do all Americans have to tell these resolution lies. I vow this year to be rich. While the rest of us are busy surviving Americans. Anything but binary. The lecturing voice and the finger waving in my face. All puffed up. You are not my granny. Not the sum of your humanity. Until it is. Just another bubble and not an interesting one. This writer (and a thousand other lesser writers) has to require us to follow the upper middle class rules of happiness and decorum. You will do this. Or else. Or else WHAT. What more can the rich do to me. Excuse me, but the world is burning down. It’s a little arrogant to assume that the pagan bad people like me need to be told in no uncertain terms we are not really competent enough to change ourselves (we need experts and more than $1.39 in Snap per meal for our kids because we are lazy and steal from our Overlords). I don’t have a physical trainer. Maybe my guts would not be this agonized and empty if I went out and got a personal trainer. What is it about this publication that has an entire army of writers and not ONE talks about poverty (or food) because it’s not their 2022 bubble. What is it about this publication’s take that only the Upper Middle Class has real value and may be allowed to indulge in the sanctity of ritual. The rest of us are outdoor enthusiasts. It means we are homeless. I would ask the rich: Why are you here. Put the conch shell to your ear.  And listen to the wind.