Oh, 2010. You’re going to be epic. I can feel it in my loins.
And just because I have nothing better to do at my pointless office job, I’m going to write some resolutions that will fail to be completed over the next 12 months.
Do some new shit. It’s hard to be motivated when your life revolves around waking up at 8 am to stare at computer screen until the sun goes down. It sucks balls that I need sleep to do it, too. But I’ve already done some new things! I mean, last night, I made avocado margaritas! They were buttery, tasted like lime, and made me all happy and green inside – even better, they didn’t make me gag! So next on the list are absinthe cupcakes. And no, not all the new shit I do in 2010 will be alcohol related and a shade of green.
Stop being a lazy asshole. Would I like to go outside? How would I feel about some exercise? Surely you jest – all I really want to do is play Wii and eat Doritos, duh! But hey, since 2010 started I’ve participated in a 5 hour death-march down the hills of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, plus some follow up horse trail walks that left my calves burning for days! And it was a good kind of burn (that left me walking like a 90 year old)! Can I keep it up? Probably not. Do I want buns of steel and some super model legs? Well sure – if they don’t require real, consistent effort!
Get the fuck out of here. Man, did I hate living in Eagle Rock. My college was in the armpit of downtown Los Angeles – nothing but taco trucks, liquor stores, and billboards in Tagalog. But at least when I lived there I would actually leave. Now that I’m working full time in the South Bay, I feel as if I haven’t seen the rest of Los Angeles in eons. I mean, Jesus, the days are starting to blend together – all I see is the inside of an office/windowless box, my car, and my wanna-be luxury apartment south of Gaffey Street. Oh, and the inside of the house of my hermit boyfriend, who hasn’t left Rolling Hills since he stopped having money and started paying heaps of rent. Well, that’s about to change. I’m spending this weekend inebriated and face down in the snow in Tahoe (and hopefully blissfully unaware of the 20 people around me that are also crammed into a too-small cabin); next weekend in Vegas (sharing a room for two with a half a dozen drunkards); and the weekend after that in San Diego (pretending to be a sushi chef and sleeping on the floor after I overdose on sake and seaweed). Then, hopefully, I will end my stint in Americorps in some freaking awesome third world nation where I will pick up yet another potentially dangerous infection (here’s looking at you, Tuberculosis)!
Speaking of which, take my Tuberculosis meds. Yeah, I guess it was funny for a half a week, and then I got tired of taking meds followed by B vitamin supplements to prevent the loss of sensation in my extremities. Dude, what? I’ve got TB? Didn’t they eradicate that? Oh, that was polio? Ah, yeah. Well, that’s what I get for standing next to phlegm-spitting old men on street corners in Vietnam – a dormant Tuberculosis infection! Yay me! I really thought this infection was just an addition to the fun list of facts about myself until my Grey-Goose-on-the-rocks-chugging, 80 year old, bad ass great aunt of the Apocalypse handed me my ass at Christmas. So, apparently, she picked up TB in Chile – but didn’t know it until she stopped being able to breathe properly during her chemo treatments a few years back. Yeah, so, apparently those inactive infections become active if your immune system gets damaged? Huh? Oh, didn’t I just have a kidney infection followed by bronchitis? Okay, okay, great auntie! Put down your empty glass of pure vodka! I will start my nine months of potentially liver-damaging medication…tomorrow. (Hey, wait, how did you keep up your Grey Goose intake on this medication? Aren’t you supposed to not take it with alcohol?)
Assess my closet. Wait, these jeans don’t fit? I’m out of underwear again? I never bought an iron, and now I have to go to work commando, wearing crumpled britches and a polo that could pass as a belly shirt? Oh shit. No wonder I’m a Volunteer in Service to America instead of an Executive Assistant at a law firm. I look like a hobo. What a cruel cycle – you need nice clothes to make money, and money to buy nice clothes! Well, I’ll make it easy: everything purchased prior to freshman year of high school in going in the trash. Everything with a giant stain is going in the trash. Everything with missing buttons is going in the trash. And everything with rips, holes, or otherwise is going in the trash. Oh fuck. Now I have to go to work naked.
Don’t end up living in a storage unit with my furniture and pet turtles in July. Oh, cruel Americorps. This program lasts for a year, provides poverty line income, and does not guarantee me a real job (unless I want one of those shoo-in federal jobs, like “Visitor Use Assistant” or Park Ranger for the National Park Service, or Secretary for the IRS). If I don’t get my shit together by the summer, I will be left with an apartment worth of furniture with no apartment to put it in, and no income to rent said required apartment. I mean, I could always sell all my furniture on Craigslist, and then go intern for The Institute for the Investigation of Communist Crimes digging up bodies in rural Romania. But that seems a little drastic. Although my resulting resume would make me look really bad ass (or really bipolar) to potential future employers.
Acknowledge the source of my asshole-ishness, and fix it. So, you think I’ve got no soul? I’m not capable of love, I hate everything, and I think everyone is an idiot? Well, hey, you’d be right. But it’s your damn fault. If you weren’t such an idiot – and you didn’t go around breaking promises like they were loaves of bread and you were Madeleine, living in a boarding school in Paris – I would be running around hugging bunnies and squealing joyfully like the rest of the blonde population. But hey, fucker, you raised me. You insult babies. You think it’s fun to get pissed at people asking for donations to help kids with cancer! You drive an expensive car with a custom license plate that lets everyone know you have a Ph.D. You’re on wife number four, and you blame it on all those ex wives – ever think, maybe it’s you?! I’m calling you on your shit dad. There’s no way your IQ is 167. You are FAIL. And I’m just like you. I should work on that shit. I mean, I just watched The Notebook with my boyfriend – he cried. I insulted all the characters and said they deserve Alzheimer’s. I suck. Soon I will be alone – just me and my nasty, sarcastic movie commentary.
Be a bad ass. Yeah, what? Yes I know I’m only like five feet tall, blonde, and I went to a liberal arts college. But I’ve eaten roasted dog! I’ve repelled down 200-foot waterfalls! I taught prostitutes in Cambodia how to do the Macarena; I’ve been punched in a bar fight; I’ve jumped off a cliff; I’ve gotten drunk on fermented rice in a Hmong village in the mountains of Laos, and white-water river rafted, and contracted Tuberculosis! I’ve ridden elephants, danced on stripper poles (and received tips – despite wearing all my clothes), gone zip lining (and got stuck 300 hundred feet above the rain forest floor because I was too light to make it to the other side). I’ve kayaked drunk and been hit by a barge, I’ve been swept off a cliff and nearly killed – but cured my wounds with a shot of tequila. I have pet turtles; I have seen North Korea and illegally taken a photo of it (from across a big military compound, ha); I’ve been briefly mistaken for a drug mule at customs in LAX, I swore to defend the Constitution of the United States against its enemies in exchange for less-than minimum wage, and I have an Asian Studies degree. It’s been awesome. And it’s only gonna get awesome-er!
Bring on the new decade!