YOUR KISSES ARE WASTED ON ME
I think that, if the Macaroni Grill wants to go on being called the Macaroni Grill, they had better grill some macaroni, fast.
As somebody who hates new year's resolutions, I find it disturbing (and still appropriate?) that I have two: one, to get on track with the writing thing in a way that feels more real to me than the messed up horserace I participated in last semester, fueled by self-doubt and Lean Pockets and bitter self-criticism, and two: to really get my relationship with food and my body righted. You know, instead of the slow stress-induced weight gain of the last semester fueled by self-doubt, Lean Pockets, bitter self-criticism, and beer. Because Lean Pockets are no longer Lean if you eat two of them back to back late at night after drinking beer. No matter what the package says.
I still hate new year's, though. It seems like there's something chemical between us (new year's and myself) that doesn't mesh well. I don't know if I believe in biorhythms, but new year's eve just totally fucks with my biorhythms. And the fact that every year I think, "Wait, maybe this is the new year's eve that doesn't suck!" doesn't exactly help either. Maybe next new year I will plan in advance to be asleep, or in a cave, or asleep in a cave in post-Lean Pocket nod.
That said, I feel a little euphoric in the carnage's aftermath. Maybe the real reason I don't like new year's (oh god, I hate sentences that start that way because it reminds me way too much of the tired Sex in the City plot twist: "But while I was standing there, peeling the slabs of lox off of my chest, I realized something . . . .") is that I don't want to re-evaluate. Or that I should more often. Or something. In any case, I always feel like it's been another unfulfilling year in which my greatest dreams for myself were not realized. Even if some of them were. Which is where the biorhythms come in, I guess.
I've been doing little line drawings of all of my ashtrays. I think it's my new favorite hobby.
I think that, if the Macaroni Grill wants to go on being called the Macaroni Grill, they had better grill some macaroni, fast.
As somebody who hates new year's resolutions, I find it disturbing (and still appropriate?) that I have two: one, to get on track with the writing thing in a way that feels more real to me than the messed up horserace I participated in last semester, fueled by self-doubt and Lean Pockets and bitter self-criticism, and two: to really get my relationship with food and my body righted. You know, instead of the slow stress-induced weight gain of the last semester fueled by self-doubt, Lean Pockets, bitter self-criticism, and beer. Because Lean Pockets are no longer Lean if you eat two of them back to back late at night after drinking beer. No matter what the package says.
I still hate new year's, though. It seems like there's something chemical between us (new year's and myself) that doesn't mesh well. I don't know if I believe in biorhythms, but new year's eve just totally fucks with my biorhythms. And the fact that every year I think, "Wait, maybe this is the new year's eve that doesn't suck!" doesn't exactly help either. Maybe next new year I will plan in advance to be asleep, or in a cave, or asleep in a cave in post-Lean Pocket nod.
That said, I feel a little euphoric in the carnage's aftermath. Maybe the real reason I don't like new year's (oh god, I hate sentences that start that way because it reminds me way too much of the tired Sex in the City plot twist: "But while I was standing there, peeling the slabs of lox off of my chest, I realized something . . . .") is that I don't want to re-evaluate. Or that I should more often. Or something. In any case, I always feel like it's been another unfulfilling year in which my greatest dreams for myself were not realized. Even if some of them were. Which is where the biorhythms come in, I guess.
I've been doing little line drawings of all of my ashtrays. I think it's my new favorite hobby.
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