December 31, 2002 :: 1:32 a.m.
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Ah, Rufus - sing to me. It's hard to believe that I found his voice grating at first. I think I must have been under the influence of drugs of some kind, because that's just crazy talk.
Anyway... it's New Year's Eve. That freaks me the fuck out, people. I don't like New Year's Eve, or New Year's Day, or anything involving the passage from one year to another. All of the above lead to nostalgia, which leads to guilt, regret, and bitter depression. It's disgusting and I hate it with a fiery passion, one of a magnitude usually reserved for hunters and people who think that professional wrestling is a true and noble sport. And now it's here, waving its big glittering ball and its Auld Lang Syne and its naked baby in a top hat and Miss America sash in my face like so many counterfeit hundred dollars bills.
Because, you see, hundred dollar bills would make me happy, just like all of this New Year's crap somehow manages to infuse the masses with drunken good cheer. However, if the bills are counterfeit then there is no enjoyment involved. They're fake, and thus I can't use them to buy things. That = no happy, just like New Year's = no happy. Because it's this shiny little ritual of cleansing and renewal that leaves me feeling neither clean nor new. Instead, I get to feel like a worthless waste of skin whose only accomplishment over the course of an entire year has been to somehow slide even further down into the dank and murky pit of badness that has been my life as of late. The only thing I've got going for me - Adam - is the thing that I seem to fuck up the most, without even meaning to. And New Year's forces me to reflect on all of this for much longer than I would have cause to if there weren't a freaking holiday celebrating it.
Granted, this year's ending is being spent with Adam, watching Back to the Future and eating Doritos, so I suppose it won't be too bad. I'll just have to distract myself with, you know, things. He bought the Back to the Future trilogy at Borders tonight, after much painful deliberation. Indecision at the bookstore... I know it so well. I always end up sitting someplace, flipping through stacks of books, dividing them into piles labeled (mentally, of course) "yes," "no," and "maybe." It takes like four hours. It's very sad. Also very sad is the fact that, for all my efforts, I often leave empty handed. It's that money thing, with the needing it and the not having it. Yeah. I did get something tonight, though, because I was able to return the cookbook that I got Joe for Christmas. Store credit is a wonderful thing. However, I felt a whole lot like a petty criminal, returning a book without a receipt. The cashier kept using that phrase, "return without receipt," like it was the most damnable act ever committed. But I got a new cookbook, so all is well. This is the second one in as many days, which is exciting because cookbooks make me all tingly. In a non-sexual way, of course, because that's just not natural.
These things are taking me longer and longer to write, because I keep distracting myself with other things. Like reading hilarious Buffy recaps at TWoP and eating coconut popsicles. Fun, yes, but not at all conducive to entry-writing. Also falling under the title of non-conducive are the ten minutes that I just spent watching Rufus stretch and yawn and roll around like the fluffy little black and white lion that he is. I wish I could stretch like that. It looks like it would feel really good, but because I possess these inflexible human limbs, I will never get to experience such stretchy pleasure. Blast.
Eh, okay, enough of this. I'm going to be easily amused by other things full-time now. Adieu.
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Wait, there's more!
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