I would like to make a toast. I would do it in Russian if I could, if only for the fact that we would all have to drink a tall shot of vodka afterward, and then all of you would be obligated to make a reciprocal toast, which would then be followed by another tall shot of vodka, and so forth toward a stumbling oblivion.
This is a toast to the smokescreen of statistical probability, to the improbability of absolutely everything. To the wonderful fact that my tiny imagination is, in reality, a terrible predictor of what will happen, and to the shockingly persistent certainty that it's really fairly accurate. To the genius of human nature that locks us into this oxymoronic paradigm, where we're absolutely sure that we can reason our way through everything, in spite of the constant reminder that we actually have very little influence over anything at all.
This is a toast to the infinite what-if future, to its slippery-ness and evasive solidity. May I always guess wrong, and be perpetually surprised.