It’s December 31 2010, and I have the stomach flu. Prognosis: 12 midnight, a kiss from my toilet. They say the way you spend New Year’s Eve is indicative of the rest of your year, I sincerely hope not.
I flew all the way from Toronto to Rome and then Rome to Athens so that I could have a fabulous New Year’s Eve. However I have just spent the entire night simultaneously vomiting into a bag while sitting on the toilet (TMI??). If that wasn’t bad enough, my bed is uncomfortable, and my room is cold. Additionally I came back to an empty fridge and a list of chores longer than my last name. Today is an ode to my luck.
All this could have been avoided if I was cautious, but of course I’m not, and so instead of having a stable 2011, I am doomed.
And why is it that I can only put pen to paper (figuratively of course because all I do is finger to keyboard) when I’m most destitute? How about those thousands of days where I was on a happy high? What about my successes? Why is it that I can only write about my failures? If my life were to be archived and history students to study me 1000 years later, what odd conclusions they would come to. A plethora of vacation pictures where I’m too happy and a myriad of prose about destitution. A paradoxical girl some might think, others would blame depression and alcohol, and only a few would come to know the truth; that I’ve stupidly gone looking for adventure because I was bored of being so comfortable. But what I failed to put into the equation is that sometimes what you seek to find, can’t be found, not even with a magnifying glass.