Mom always advised me against “wishing my life away” by wanting a date to arrive sooner rather than later.

I am going to ignore Mom’s sage wisdom on one matter, in that I want this year to end as rapidly as possible. That means I will welcome the arrival of 2024 with ruffles and flourishes, perhaps even a whistle and a whoop.

The year 2023 has been one for the sh***er, at least in my house.

I have chronicled for you on this blog multiple tales of my journey through the darkness that began on Feb. 3, the day I lost my wife, Kathy Anne, to glioblastoma. I am happy to declare that my trek’s path is a lot brighter today than it was when it began. But the year has been nothing short of tragic for my family and me nevertheless.

Then, just this past Friday, I had to say farewell to the sweetest puppy God ever produced. Toby had contracted cancer this past summer and he fought it like hell until, well, he just ran out of strength. His doctor informed me that Toby’s quality of life had deteriorated beyond any hope for recovery. It was time to let him go. My sons and I did so.

My house today is eerily quiet without Toby the Puppy.

I always have followed Mom’s advice about wishing my life away. I have steered away, for instance, from phrases like “I can’t wait … “ for something to occur, remembering precisely what she told me. She knew life was too short to seek a quick arrival at the next destination. She was so very correct.

However, I am done with 2023. I want nothing more to do with this godforsaken span of time.

They’re going ban pots and pans on New Year’s Eve in my Princeton neighborhood. I might even join my neighbors in heralding the new year. More to the point, though, is that I will usher out the old one with relish and a hearty “good fu**ing riddance!”

Furthermore, while I am at it, I am likely to give 2023 what we used to call The Finger.