There are so many things I neglected to do in 2017, however I’m confident with the right resolutions this time around 2018 will finally be the Year of Kelly. This year I promise to do every single one of these to make myself a better person. Unless I get busy or forget about them or something.

The cat has a pretty good life it seems. Become more like him. Test it out first by climbing onto the kitchen counter and knocking everything wife puts on there off while staring unblinkingly and unapologetic. Later curl up into her lap to see if she ends up forgiving me while rubbing my chin.

Understand why really large shrimp are called “jumbo” while really large T-shirts are called “XL.” Do shrimp not have self-esteem issues? They do now.

Change name to Jim. Buy a gym. Rename it Jim’s Gym. Only allow people named Jim to buy a membership but don’t alert any members. Watch magic happen.

Eat more protein.

Ride a horse. Not on its back but by relentlessly encouraging it to follow its dreams. Say things like, “Standing on four legs eating grass is no way to go through life, son.”

Start calling pizza “protein.”

Stop trying to seduce wife by licking mouthpiece of tuba. Face it; it’s not working.

Get fewer cuts on my tongue this year. Dump pineapple into a bowl instead of tongue-scooping it.

Become bounty hunter. Confirm that turning in folks at Perkins for taking dill pickle spears from other people’s plates meets criteria, KEVIN.

Accept that 12 is the record number of Pringles that can fit in my mouth. It was a long road to get here and, dang it, learn to celebrate your accomplishments.

Stop telling daughter that every time she disobeys one of Santa’s elves gets kicked by a reindeer.

Frame Nicholas Cage (again).

Cry less, or at least at more important things than wife throwing away perfectly good leftovers.

Spend more time with family; specifically, Olivia Wilde’s family. Minus her family.

Whenever boss asks me to do something, stop saying, “Kelly puts on his Boots of Haste and retreats into the forest!” This doesn’t seem to get me out of work.

Figure out what Whig party stands for (wigs?). Join them. Wear glorious assortment of wigs.

Hand out more 8×10 headshots. Not of myself, but of acclaimed actor Gary Oldman.

Get into fewer choreographed knife fights.

There’s no rule stating you can’t put candles into more foods than just cake. Use this to your advantage.

Stop mimicking Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s catchphrase “Engage” all over the place, especially in bed.

Stop referring to children as “minions.” Minions do what they’re told.

Slowly replace appliances with 1970s counterparts and begin convincing wife it’s 1972.

Do my “business” in a men’s room when there is another man there instead of walking in, freaking out and fleeing.

Uncovered that Whig party demanded government support for a more modern, market-oriented economy, in which skill, expertise and bank credit would count for more than physical strength or land ownership. What a bunch of squares. Secede from Whig party. Join Cocktail Party.

I’ve been talking about it for years, but spend an afternoon and finally map out the human genome. Then make a tasty sandwich (turkey club?).

Be more Fergalicious.

Stop getting capes stuck in car doors, under grocery cart wheels, etc. It’s really embarrassing.

Go on a crusade to ensure other people break their resolutions so I don’t feel as guilty breaking mine.

Blame random, obscure ethnic group for piddly first-world problems. Example: “I’m out of kalamata olives AGAIN?! You know whose fault this is, don’t you? Those stupid Bagladeshis.”

Become manlier: grow chest hair in the shape of Texas. Related: figure out how to grow chest hair.

Get kicked out of fewer “Cash for Gold” businesses. They don’t like it when you dress up as a prospector and pan for gold in their breakroom.

Help wife around the house more by pointing out chores she neglected or areas she missed.

Probably stop trying to teach daughter home defense skills by rigging house with Home Alone-style booby traps. If she doesn’t know how to rig a blowtorch to a door handle by now she’s never going to get it.

Poke a conductor.

Start cooking the batter before eating pancakes.

Randomly become an expert on cobras and bring up cobra facts into every conversation.

Stop blasting techno music/breakdancing whenever wife begins sentence “Can you…” Be more modest and pay attention to other people, like that handsome devil I see in the mirror every morning.

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Kelly Van De Walle can be reached at vandkel@hotmail.com or via sultry message written on mirrors in a steamy bathroom. Follow Kelly on Twitter @pancake_bunny or face his wrath (Wrath is the name of his sugar glider).