Tuesday, October 20, 2009
32 isn't the prettiest color, according to my synesthesia.
And I don't want to get old. I don't want mortality salience. I will be young and beautiful forever, dammit.
But I want my cake. And a big, delicious dinner featuring either really good steak or duck.
Mainly, I want my cheerful little son to quit playing with a wrapping paper tube, take the ginormous crap heralded by his stanky dead-dog-farts, and go back to sleep.
So that I can go back to sleep, so that it will be my birthday already, so that I can have my cake and a big delicious dinner featuring either really good steak or duck.
I'm having some sort of weird, pre-birthday downer. Besides the fact that I'm downstairs on the laptop instead of upstairs in my cozy, perfect bed with my sweet, sleepy Dr. Krog. I think it has something to do with finishing the latest Diana Gabaldon book and knowing there won't be another one for four years. How can I wait four years to find out what happens? It leaves me feeling bereft in a very ridiculous way.
I guess that's how you know you've got a good life-- the worst thing happening is that you can't have your favorite meal until Friday and you just finished a really good book.
Thanks, 31. You were a pretty awesome year.