Thursday, January 05, 2006

auld lang might-just-suck

So far in 2006 I have:
When given vast stretches of free time, been completely unproductive
Over eatten out of boredom and the alive and well fat kid inside of me
Watched absurd amounts of television
Spent money I don't have on things I don't need
Done nothing to get closer to where I want to be a year from now.

...2006 is looking curiously similar to 2005.

I hate the idea of a new beginning on New Year's. It is entirely too much pressure for one twenty-four hour period. The idea that you're going to let a night of drunken shennanigans determine how the rest of your year goes doesn't seem quite so brilliant when stone-cold sober (as I am for about the 3rd time all break-- I told you there was nothing to do here). 2004 and 2005 were, for the most part, pretty sweet new years eves. I did the thing like its cliched to be done. Then I built up all this pressure for 2006 because 2004 and 2005, while awesome, were not as productive in various (read: most) facets of my life. This New Years Eve, while exceedingly rockin' in many a way, did not have the ending I had invisioned. Though the whole "crumpled magic celery dress on the floor" (read: chair. the magic celery dress never ends up on the floor) thing did occur-- it just wasn't how I had planned it.

Anyway. 2006 has so far been spent mostly in the company of Hugh Laurie and the rest of the cast of House as I tore through C's season 1 DVDs. In retrospect this wasn't the best idea as I will be celebrating Epiphany (Jan 6th, for all you heathens out there) having all 4 wisdom teeth extracted (a word that continues to send chills up my spine). The watching of the House and the overthinking (because, seriously, I have nothing else to do) of all the what-ifs has made me completely positive that in the process of the extraction I will crash and then need a lumbar puncture, which will go badly and I may or may not be paralyzed from it. Then they're gonna find out that I may in fact not need my teeth extracted at all, but I actually might have vasculitis, they can't be sure until they test my bone marrow which will leave me pretty much hating life and refusing any sort of other medical tests even though they may actual save my life until of course the doctor (who sometimes looks like Dr. House and sometimes looks like Dr. Derek Shepard because, guess what?!, it's my complete mental breakdown) comes into my room and tells me to trust him because he's going to save me, which of course I do. And then right as I'm about to have surgery he bursts in to say that I'm going to be okay! That it was just the fact that I wore those stupidly gorgeous 5 inch stilletos for 5 hours on New Year's Eve and then walked barefoot in Downtown Baltimore which gave me a serious syphillis of the foot, which is hard to diagnose but totally curable. Then Dr. Derek Shepard (who is who this overthought always ends up being about because a good head of hair wins out every time) decides that he can't life without me and he cures me and we move to Fiji.

So. If you never hear from me again, its probably because I'm in Fiji, with Dr. Derek Shepard doing 2006 like it was meant to be done.

Happy 2006 Lovelies.

1 comment:

that mckim girl said...

That was so beautiful.

Also, the same thing happens to me when I watch too much House: I become a raging hypochondriac, convinced I could drop dead at any moment.

Because seriously: all of their patients are fine and then- WHAM!- they're dying. Not too comforting.

PS- Let me tell you about getting my wisdom teeth removed. I'd just been cast in Little Shop of Horrors, where Pits was playing the sadistic, nitrus sucking dentist. Chew on that image while they're taking your teeth.

She's pint-sized and amazing.