Her Royal Highness of Melodrama
Duck and cover.
As previously discussed, my birthdays are usually pretty atrocious. I don't know what possessed me to think that beginning a lease on the unluckiest day of my year was a great idea, but something did and now I am and I'm waiting for the bottom to fall out like a grocery bag filled with one too many cans of Beefaroni.
It's my birthday, and I'll use as many melodramatic metaphors as I please. Furthermore, I reserve the right to be the archetypal victim in what is growing to be a full-blown scene in my head, a head full of pink curlers covered in a scarf, big black sunglasses leaking streaks mascara, blubbering in the middle of the parking lot over dented Chicken of the Sea.
Even I don't know where I'm going with this anymore. I guess it boils down to the fact that my heart is a sixties sit-com Valium addict. Or something like that.
I spent all of last night watching a pirated copy of Mysterious Skin on my laptop and throwing out everything from my sophomore year of college. It would be right on par with my usual birthday celebration if that last sentence caused the feds to arrest me for downloading a movie I fully intend to purchase. I'm sure they wouldn't get around to picking me up until Thursday. Anyway, I threw out copies of poems so bad I wanted to bleed on them, not just to cease the pain they cause but to obscure the very words. [I told you. It's my party and I'll exaggerate if I want to. Which I do.] I put my many K-Mart stuffed animals in bags to be donated (so long, Purple Bear). (Who was actually green.) I threw out birthday cards, photos of people I don't like, and photos of people I tragically do like and would probably marry if they ever asked. Had to go.
Then I found, at the bottom of a box large enough to sleep in, two CDs filled with pictures from 2001-2002. While I should've been sorting through my containers of soap and investigating whether hair products expire, I cycled through several thousand photos taken during a year that remains foggy, at best.
And Joseph Gordon Levitt was being beaten by a shampoo bottle in the corner of my screen, and I was sitting in a circle of light from a bare bulb on my basement floor and sneezing, and I was throwing people who once meant a great deal to me into a giant black garbage bag, and what was the single, saving grace of a thought going through my mind as a year of debauchery and depression and cheap, cheap liquor streamed past?
PLUCK YOUR GODDAMN EYEBROWS, KATHY! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?