Anyway. In sacrament meeting a few Sundays ago, our ward sang “Ring Out, Wild Bells” (a hilarious exercise in “why LDS choristers shouldn’t try to be clever and pick weird songs”), and I’m pretty sure I sang, “The year is dying, let him die!” with particular vengeance.
I started 2012 hopeful that my new job would be awesome and
help me become a better writer. I fully expected to have some adventures, make new
friends, and maybe even meet someone. By New Year’s Eve, however, I was pretty
much like:
My blogging efforts were just one casualty.
But that’s over now. I refuse to become a prostitute and sell my teeth and hair. I also refuse to produce the world’s most uninspiring heroine as a daughter. No. Instead, I’m treating 2012 like John Lennon’s lost weekend—an experiment in booze-fueled self destruction that was eventually recovered from. (Read “booze” as “anything fried”).
But that’s over now. I refuse to become a prostitute and sell my teeth and hair. I also refuse to produce the world’s most uninspiring heroine as a daughter. No. Instead, I’m treating 2012 like John Lennon’s lost weekend—an experiment in booze-fueled self destruction that was eventually recovered from. (Read “booze” as “anything fried”).
2013 is going to be better. I’ve already cleaned out my
Gmail inbox, and my room is the next thing on the list. After that comes my
outlook on life.
I have had a kind St.-Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus-type
blinding flash that my life has a next chapter. I’m not going to be writing
about “how to lose weight with green tea” or “how to sustain a longer erection”
forever. And finding another job, picking up, and starting over isn’t an
impossibility. I mean, I could even put a stamp in my blank passport this year
if I make it a priority.
 | |
| Tina Fey gets me. |
For here and now, however, this blog is going to be my priority. I am recommitting and channeling my conspiracy theories and "I'm bored" rabbit holes here. Because
if left to my own devices, I will last for about a month before retreating into
my sad place where I shotgun mozzarella sticks and find romantic fulfillment
from my 89th viewing of “When Harry Met Sally.”
Okay. Allons-y!
