I don’t set New Year’s resolutions, as I generally forget them, say, 12 hours into the new year. It seems the general idea behind the practice is that, since time has presented us with a fresh start and an excuse to buy glossy calendars, it’s also the appropriate season to begin enforcing new regulations on our lives.

Doesn’t sound like fun, but oh, it is, because if for just one year we can force ourselves to abide by the new mandates, the next year will find us new and improved people.

So I’ve decided to play Fate’s little board game – I’ll stick to some small promises and in exchange for my dedication, I’d like to end the year knowing I am a better person for it. I think that’ll earn some happiness, and not the kind that comes out of a Prozac bottle.

I’m also going to request from Fate – if I’m going to have to stick to all of these little promises – to grant me instantaneous success, fame and fortune.

I figure if I can take care of a few small tasks, Fate will have no choice but to reward me with a perfect life. I hear that’s how she works.

First small promise to self: Budget money. I’m not completely sure how much money I’ll be making in the future, but I’m hoping it will be somewhere in the range of “oodles,” and I’ve decided that “oodles” shall be enough money for me to purchase a large home in an exotic locale, finance the new, perfect life I’ll inevitably be leading before long, and have enough of the aforementioned “oodles” in which to roll around naked.

Actually, I think I’ll hire Gap models to roll around naked in the money. I don’t particularly want to watch them doing this, but I’d like to know it’s happening. I’m prompted to commit to this financial regulation so that I can better streamline my purchases toward more sensible choices – food, perhaps. In the meantime, I’ll just start scouting for the Gap models I’m going to buy.

Speaking of anorexia-induced beauty: Small promise to self No. 2.: Get in shape. That leaves me the option of adding the clause of which particular shape I was referring to, thus making it okay to justify still being, let’s say, “somewhat pudgy, but adorably so” in 12 months.

If I’m demanding Fate appoint me a rich-and-famous lifestyle, I will simply have to get these “Buns of Steel” and “Absolute Abs” everybody’s been talking about on those fancy, new infomercials.

Third small promise to self: Lessen burning hatred of small children. Now, hear me out, because it’s not my fault, this burning hatred of small children I harbor. I’m just at a loss for understanding when it comes to these little beings that can go from squealing with happiness to screeching with murderous rage.

I hold a grudge against them, for I don’t think it’s right that the twerps – so small in stature, so innocent in appearance – can make grown adults say things like “Diss yoo wanna juicy? Iss tha wha yoo wanna?” Woman, you’re 32. You stop speaking like that.

“I’s is gonna count to five and yoos needa stop sitting in Mommy’s scrambled eggs or issa time out!” This is when the hatred burns most, and if it weren’t for their squeaky appearance, I fear I may bellow at a young one or two.

The irony, of course, is that yelling at the tykes inevitably summons the screaming and crying I hate so much.

So I find it best to run away from the kiddies all together and thank my stars I’ve as of yet successfully avoided becoming pregnant, as I hear that is how the little ones come into existence.

I’ve read that those of the rich and famous lifestyle persuasion often keep little kids around as either mementos of multiple marriages gone awry or for more useful purposes, like piecing together Nike products or handling the housework.

And that’s that, Fate. You’ve got my word that I’ll budget my money, find a new shape and learn to pretend to sort of like loud children.

I call them promises, you call them resolutions – either way, I’ll expect the new life and happiness in 365 days, please. If I’m going to work this hard to become new and improved, you just be sure I’m going to be the best new and improved person on the market.

Cavan Reagan is a senior in journalism and mass communication and English from Bellevue, Neb. He is the student life editor for the Daily.