A few days ago, I was talking to a friend. Her boyfriend had planned a surprise for their New Year's Eve. She was worried because she was superstitious. She felt like that what she did on New Year's Eve would color how the rest of the year would turn out.
Cut to New Years Eve. Me, sick as a dog, vomiting every half an hour or so. Laying on the couch, watching an Awful-Movies-Edited-For-Television marathon on cable. I was too delirious to realize I could even change the channel.
And the only thing I could think of that entire time was how if I spent new year's eve vomiting, what did that mean for 2006? Would this be a spew-filled year for me? Would I take up casual bulimia? Would I have to conduct all of my personal and business affairs kneeling and retching in front of the toilet?
Luckily, I rallied later in the evening, and managed to make it to a party. I spent the time in the company of friends, and if that's the way 2006 is going to be, well, I can't imagine anything better.
Oh, and by the way? 2006 is The Year Of The Opus. I saw it on a chinese food placemat. Mark your calendars, people.
--opus
posted by opus at
3:04 PM
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