the only thing worse
than bad memories
is no memories at all..
[dismemberment plan]
1.26.2007
Fudge.
Today's my 22nd birthday.
:(
Edit on 01/29/07: My stomach wouldn't stop flip-flopping in the few days before my birthday. I was getting over a prolonged illness this past month, but I was filled with this weird nagging anxiety which kept me at home from work, sleeping all day, and worrying. I felt like at 22, I was rapidly approaching some kind of awful point in my life where I had no longer had anything to look forward to.
21 was the "I no longer have to rely on a fake ID (given to me by Meagan, who found it on the streets of Philly from what I understand), which consists of a New York driver's license belonging to a certain 'Carla Giglio' whose D.O.B. would render me about 32 years old and whose photo would render me vaguely Hispanic or Italian" legal drinking age. This was also the age that I finally found myself buying my own drinks at bars. I guess once you are of legal age, and people no longer get to brag/complain: "Oh my god, I could go to jail for this!" it's no longer fun for people to buy you drinks. Damn it.
20 was the "I'm no longer a teenager so I'm totally mature, but am young enough to call myself an 'old soul' while making faces to show how bitter I am, drinking scotch at the bar with old, people and saying the F-word all the time" year. This was met with limited success.
19 was the "I guess I can still call myself a 'barely-legal Asian schoolgirl' and get away with wearing plaid miniskirts, oh who am I kidding, I'm a living caricature of myself" age.
18 was the "I am legal now! But still completely filled with teenage angst" age. Probably my most blissfully ignorant year. Man, I was really stupid.
At 22, I find myself at a point where I no longer find the urge to impress the wrong people for the wrong reasons to be quite as compelling. After several years of not doing what was best for me, after experiencing a lot of eye-opening situations, after filling my bookshelf with more than a few embarrassingly titled and apparently poorly concealed self-help books on how to not be crazy, I'm finally trying to do what will make me happy.
"22 feels... different." "Better?" "... Uh huh."
I guess I'm realizing that at 22, it's not so much that there's a lack of milestones to look foward to. It's more that I have less first-experiences to stumble over, to skin my knees over, to bleed over. I feel kind of like a hobo with a bindle (ahem: a rag tied at the end of a stick) filled with new insights, walking along the train tracks and into a hopeful sunset. And, you know, all of that hippie bullshit.
I just, I just really want to do it right this time.
A lot more shit has happened here and there, but this is all I would like to post at the moment. It isn't much.
The Good: My baby turtles Hans and Gerald were alive and kickin' it when I returned to New York after Christmas.
The Bad: Several weeks later, despite enjoying what appeared to be good health in the meantime, Hans was found at the bottom of the tank, upside-down, his tiny legs splayed out, his eyes closed. Despite efforts to revive him, including giving his shell gentle compressions, CPR-style, his eyes remained closed. He was wrapped in wax paper, placed in a green tea box, with a note that included his full name (Hans Wolfcastle), the date (January 14, 2007), and a small drawing of a smiling turtle. Though I wanted to give him a proper Viking burial (sending his box afloat on the river, and then light it on fire), I figured it would be rather suspicious to be setting things on fire and throwing them into the river at night in New York, and instead gave him as dignified an exit as possible down the garbage chute. Goodbye, little Hans. Gerald and I miss you.
. . .
The Good: My nose has recovered from the terrible turbinate reduction procedure pretty well. I can breathe through my nose now! It's incredible!
The Bad: Last night, while sitting with my foot bent under my butt, I caught a whiff of some rank-ass feet-smell. Wow!
The Other Stuff: I was so intrigued by my footy rankness that I ran over to my mom, who was huddled under a huge blanket watching Korean dramedy DVDs, stuck my stockinged foot under her face, and said, "MOM! MOM! SMELL THIS! OH MY GOD! DO YOU SMELL THAT?" And she screamed, "OH IT SO SMELL!!! IT SO SMELL BAD! I THINK I THROW UP NOW, YOU DISGUSTING! I TOO OLD FOR THIS!!! I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE!" and then made loud gagging noises and pretended to throw up.
. . .
The Bad: A few weeks ago, I had a terrible allergic reaction and broke out into angry, red hives all over my body. My top lip swelled up overnight, to the size of Amanda Lepore's. I also had a fever for several days, and my body ached all over so much that it was hard to move my arms.
The Good: I was lucky enough to have someone hold ice packs on my hives at night, listen to me whine until the drugs lulled me to sweet, merciful sleep...
The Other Stuff: I went to a doctor, a soft-spoken man in a pair of delicate glasses, who tsk-tsked at my itchy, sore, defeated state. He spoke gently into a microphone which transcribed his diagnosis onto his computer. "Does that mean you're a slow typer?" I asked. He laughed. "Yes." He continued speaking into the microphone: "Patient has wheals that are raised and red, some in a figure-8 pattern (period). Recognized limited typing skills (period)...."
He prescribed 30 days of Zyrtec, an antihistamine, and 5 months-worth of refills. After 3 days of taking Prednisone, and more than 7 days of taking 2 Benadryl tablets every 4 hours, 1 Zyrtec daily, and 1 Ranitidine whenever I remembered to take it, the hives have finally gone away. I take a couple of Benadryl now and then to keep some phantom (possibly psychosomatic) itching at bay, but I've stopped taking the Zyrtec.
According to this website, Zyrtec can cause side effects such as "nervousness, abnormal thinking, amnesia, and anxiety." It also includes "euphoria" and "terrifying dreams."
I do have a few dreams lately that have been sticking in my mind, making my stomach feel really strange. And they are indeed the most terrifying dreams I've had in a long, long time. They are so very frightening, but beautiful, too. So beautiful that they scare the absolute fucking shit out of me.
[Peek-a-Foo]