There’s nothing worse than listening to someone else go on and on about their own New Year’s resolutions.

There’s the dieting guide they got for Christmas and a promise to shed a few unwanted pounds. There’s a new gym membership and a commitment to healthier living. There’s a juice-of-the-month club for what appears to be a long overdue cleansing.

There’s quitting smoking, learning to play the guitar, organizing the garage. The list goes on and on and on.

It’s tiresome.

Nobody wants to hear about all the things you’ll attempt for a week or two — three weeks, max — before you go back to being the same self we’ve all tolerated for the last three decades.

It would be like if I stood up on my milk crate outside the dollar store and started preaching about all the things I was going to do for myself in 2022.

Does it matter to anyone that I’m resolving to break off the most damaging relationship I’ve had over the last 10 years, the one thing that’s caused more emotional damage, despair and desperation than David Ortiz’s retirement? These New York Giants are a decade removed from their last Super Bowl win — their last playoff victory of any kind — and it’s time for me to find a new football home.

Likewise, nobody’s worried about me finally letting go of all my New England Patriots hatred. Watching Mac Jones these past couple of weekends has only shown me that this entire 20-year dynasty is finally over, that while the Patriots will always remain a pretty good NFL team, they’re no longer an automatic bye all the way to the Lombardi hardware.

I could gather all my family and friends in room and proclaim that I’ll be a better Red Sox fan in 2022. I could promise to trust the process, to learn from October’s magical bonus run to the American League Championship Series. I’ll use the opportunity of a new year’s arrival to remind myself that the baseball season is a months-long marathon, and it’s not necessary to dissect every Chris Sale start or blown save in May as if each were a referendum on an entire organizational philosophy.

I might not stop there, either.

I’d be tempted to further share my renewed faith in European soccer and how I’m moving past the sting of the introduction of a failed Super League, where only the biggest and richest clubs in the world would have been allowed to compete for the sport’s most significant prize aside from the World Cup.

Instead of complaining about John Henry’s bottom line, I’d allow my soul a return to basking in Liverpool’s greatness — the Anfield crowd on a European night, Virgil Van Dijk as the world’s best defending player, Jordan Henderson as the unlikeliest of leaders and Mohammed Salah as the true rightful earner of the Ballon d’Or.

I could refuse to stop there, pledging to become the kind of selfless leader that first-year Maine Mariners head coach Ben Guite has proven himself to be. Guite last week, following an eight-hour bus ride home with the team through the middle of the night, got in his own car and then embarked on a 16-hour roundtrip back to Quebec to bring COVID-infected forward Keltie Jeri-Leon back to Portland so the rookie wouldn’t have to spend the holidays quarantined in a hotel room by himself.

Maybe I’d commit to watching more college football and less NFL. Perhaps I’d sign a pact with myself to stop complaining about Sidney Crosby so much. I could even vow to play more disc golf and eat fewer carbohydrates.

I’ve almost convinced myself that I could try to become a better person overall by not letting Sox, Celtics and Bruins results dictate my mood.

But nobody wants to hear about any of this.

Like I said, New Year’s resolutions are the worst.

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