This is my year.
This is my year.
This is my year.
This is my year.
I say that every year, you know. In 2001, I was so sure of it, I could taste it. Then, in the beginning of February, I broke two bones in my leg, lay incarcerated in fibre glass for seven months, and wallowed a lot, because I couldn't cha cha anymore.
In 2002, I was just happy to be walking with two shoes and zero crutches. I worked hard, played respectably, and rose to the pinnacle of my weight, hoping nobody else was noticing. I started to bust out of giant sizes but found true love at the bottom of a box of Pot of Gold. Then I went and spoiled it by having an affair with the Pringles man. He was kind of a bastard, but God, he knew how to make a girl feel good.
In 2003, I was thinner than I ever had been before, and feeling so good, I decided that spreading my love, my joy, my sweetness and light all over the city was my job. Thank God I stopped losing weight, else every boy in the greater metropolitan area would have found out how happy I was. I was sure that 2003 was the year that everything would have seamed together for me, but my theory was wrong, and I was left confused. If food wasn't love, but thin people weren't happier, what the hell was the answer?
I was absolutely sure 2004 was going to be the year I took over the world. Lofty aspirations to be sure, but really, I just wanted to take over my little corner. New opportunities abounded, and I took them. Of course, my life sort of disappeared in the process, and I kind of started to mildew in a basement, and I didn't dance or mingle or laugh through my days quite as much as, perhaps, a girl who loves to dance and mingle and laugh as much as I do, should. But you know, that happens. Everyone, once and a while, tastes their own kind of sadness. Everyone, I suppose, has a little well of melancholy inside them that perhaps they've never really seen before, and maybe this year I finally found it. And everyone, I would think, starts to maybe spend more time at that well then they should, for a time, for a short time, sometimes for a longer time. Not forever. Certainly not forever.
I ended 2004 sitting at that well, tossing stones into it in a desultory way, kind of getting bored of the view as I leaned back against it and looked out at the new year.
And so 2005 is my year. Because the personal well of sadness is boring. Because the grass is yellow, and the sky is grey, and there is nobody around to talk to, because they're either dancing with rainbows, or hanging around their own wells.
The words are grand, aren't they? They're grand, and kind of false, because the truth of the matter is that all I see around me is yellow grass and grey sky and I don't know where to go to get the hell away from here. Still, one day, maybe I'll pack myself a lunch, and take a little walk, and see where it takes me. Hell, I can always come back if I have to.
But maybe I won't have to. Who knows? I have all year to find out.
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