Drowning Sorrows
Who the fuck gave Carson Daley a television show? And why am I watching it? Because it's 2 a.m. and I can't sleep, and I've run out of Internet to surf.
Growrf.
I should be in bed. I have to get up early and wait for the hot tub repairman to show up. I came home from the dentist this morning, and as I was unlocking the back door, I glanced over at the tub and thought, "Hmm. Isn't there usually a little red light glowing on the instrument panel?" Yes, it turns out, there is usually a little red light, except the red light does not glow if the tub has, say, inexplicably turned itself off in the midst of 20-something-degree weather. I reset the outlet into which the tub is plugged and the LCD thingy that usually displays the water temperature read, "ICE."
It is apparently impossible to have a hot tub repair person dispatched to one's home the same day one calls to summon one, despite one's urgency and desire for someone to do something before the water turns into a tiny little skating rink. So instead, at the suggestion of the repair dispatch lady, I spent a large part of my afternoon rigging up a small space heater to blow hot air directly onto the tub's pump and water lines. And the whole time, I'm thinking, Jesus Christ. I have a goddamned hot tub. Where is the apparition of my 21-year-old self come to the future to kick my ass and shove my face into a warm, bubbling bong?
Can you tell I'm turning thirty on Sunday? I'm turning thirty on Sunday. People keep asking me if it bothers me, this prospect of turning thirty on Sunday, and I keep telling them, No, don't be silly. Just a number, what can I do to stop it, blar blar blar. But there is a small part of my mind that keeps jumping up and down like a tiny little crackhead that's screaming, "Thirty! Your allotted decade of hedonism and self-absorption is OVER, bitch. Quickly now, run out and snort meth from the navel of a bi-curious yoga instructor! Something! Anything! Waaahhhhh ..."
The fact of the matter is that I'm far more interested these days in good oral hygiene than I am in recreational drug use, and I'm not entirely sure when that happened, but I'm rather okay with it. That said, I have every intention of spending Saturday night getting stinking pissed with my husband and friends and all day Sunday nursing a pounding hangover and bitching about how I never got these kind of hangovers in my twenties.
posted by Kate at 2:00 AM link/comments
Every now and then, evey and I will look at some rock god, some slithering hipster and i'll lean over to her conspiratorially and whisper 'yes, that's how rock and roll i am in my head'.
the point being that
turning 30 is about realising that you can be that rock and roll in your head without needing to make the sacrifices to good sense, personal health, safety and hygiene that a lifestyle of that nature generally entails.
to sum up.
rock on.
happy birthday.
you can be a rock god and own a house and a lawnmower and dental floss.
people who are old and domesticafied know this.
hangovers are insidious fuckers that become exponentially worse as your age grows past 28, it's some shit like (for hangover severity =h)
h=(age-28)*fucking hell ow that hurts oh my gawd i'm never going to mix vodka with that blue shit again