So I'm not so much typing this blog entry as much as I'm mashing the keys to my MacBook with pudgy, mincemeat-filled shovels of fingers and hoping for the best. I can't even cross the fat sausages for good luck. Not unaided.
The whole snow-on-the-ground thing meant December was officially a No Running Month, and I have successfully eaten the cupboards bare here at mum and dad's- and I've only been here ten days. In fact, not long after I arrived Mama asked Dad to pick up a few bits on his way back from
the pub the golf course giving mincemeat penis' to strangers wherever he was going. "But we've got loads in," said Dad. Mama looked at him. "That was before Laura had breakfast," she replied.
It's alright for her. She's so bloody skinny that she barely has one chin, let alone my six. I've taken to calling her a fat bitch as a sort of passive-aggressive coping mechanism. As in, "Could you get me a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen please Laura-Loo?" "Sure- FAT BITCH."
It's almost a relief that the holidays are over. Then I can at least take off New Year's Day from consuming my own body weight in Malteesers. Probably.
Oh, 2011, what fun we shall have! Quite like 2010 and I had. I've sort of been a downmarket version of Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat, Pray, Love this year. Except for she did Italy, India and finished her year of self-discovery in the arms of a fit Brazilian in Bali. I did America, Italy and then finished my year of self-discovery fat and alone in Derby. My book would be called Eat, Eat, Eat. She wins.
2010 has most visibly been marked by the self-mutilation I inflicted on myself: a tattoo to punctuate how heartbreak and pain led me to foreign lands and altered the course of my life FOR THE REST OF ALL ETERNITY, and a nose piercing that Dad claimed had not only ostracized me from a large proportion of the job market but from society as a whole as well. Who knew a simple stud could achieve so much? Or that a grown woman could still be crushed to think she had somehow disappointed Daddy. Don't tell him I said that.
Oh America- you captured my heart this year. January through April you reminded me of the kindness of strangers, and how much I love to perform, and just how damned cute your boys are. I might not always have been understood over there but hell- cute is a universal language. AM I RIGHT?
And Italy. All summer you busted my balls with your predilection for machiato before ANYTHING productive because coffee is productive in itself, apparently, and you led me to meet some of the most amazingly influential people who probably will never realise the impact they have had on my life, and then you impressed me with just how cute your boys are. And I might not always have been understood over there, either, but HELL. CUTE IS A UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE. And I KNOW I'm right there.
Then finally, after eight months of planes and trains and Skype calls and travel budgets and a wardrobe limited to only what I could pack in a suitcase, there was an autumn return to Derby. The House of Pastelle, too much cider, entire months written off to nothing but shame and debauchery and the boys? Well. To be honest, not so cute. I kinda can't wait to blow this popsicle joint. Can I get an a-men?
Or maybe just a-mAn?
This year I had a book published. I launched a 'zine. I became News and Politics editor of my university's magazine. I learnt things about myself by being pushed to my limits, by both myself and mostly by others. Pricks. I made more new friends than a lot of people make in a decade and I've learnt that wherever I lay my hat, that is my home. (AT LEAST FOR THAT NIGHT, ANYWAY. WAY-OH!)
I'll be seeing in the New Year alone, with a pen and paper and my thoughts. I've never had a good new year's, what with all of the expectation and hype and inability to get served at the bar so now I've learnt that the best way for me to have fun is by buying in party food for one, snuggling down in front of the fire for the evening, and writing. Seeing in the coming year as I mean to continue with it: creating. I know that makes me a loser, but I'm a loser with a bloody brilliant year behind her.
Happy New Year, Internet. May 2011 be just as fabulous, and here's hoping the queue for the bar ain't too bad.