The weirdly appropriate My Year in Lists is rattling through my head like a meme on the meta-amphetamines.

Trying to assemble a guest list is an interesting cliff face to mount. You have people you want there and will be there, people you want there but you don’t know if they want to be there, people you haven’t seen in years and would love to see now but you don’t know if that’s placing undue pressure on them because you’re kind of embarrassing to know, people you don’t want that desperately wish to come out of a misplaced sense of a affection, people who have kids that you don’t know have kids and said kids don’t get invited so that when they see other kids you knew about present begin to seethe in That Way, people you have to invite because if you don’t will kick up such a fuss with Our Maureen that you will invite simply to spare poor Our Maureen because frankly who deserves that kind of abuse, people you want to invite but don’t because you don’t think they would want to come, even though they do…

Of course, I have been known to over-think these things. I have already been advised by people who have survived the war before me and know better to just do what I like and screw the white noise. But when have I ever listened to good advice? That’s just what they want me to do! Right now, I’m a weird mixture of a self-doubting coffee fiend and Lt George.

I think the safest way to move forward is play the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and plow through the current list before I hit bat country.

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