Confession #1: I pissed away 32 years.

I am a mere forty some odd days away from the start of another birth year. Birthday festivities are being cemented, gifts are being demanded and, with the tunnel-vision focus of an anti-gay hate group, I am wrapping up my detailed game plan to eat my way into 33 at the finest establishments my area has to offer.

As I sit here, alternately gleeful at the thought of a food-induced coma and saddened that I can no longer fit into my gluttony-supporting “eating pants”, I can’t help but think that I am no closer to being smarter/richer/thinner/nicer/tolerant-er than I was a few three hundred and twenty something days ago. If honesty were to prevail, I would have to admit that I am actually fatter/bitchier/poorer/bittER than I was during my birthday celebration last year. And that sucks more than the very real fact that my fat jeans are now my skinny jeans.

Last year I had great intentions for my 32^nd year. I wanted to act better, sound better, look better, BE better than I had ever thought possible. But you know what they say, (who the FUCK are ‘they’ btw????), the road of good intentions is paved with hellish failure…. or hard intentions leads to a fat ass. Whatever. You get my point.

As I sit here contemplating the truly unfortunate possibility of wearing sweat pants (the HORROR!) to a passion party this weened (as though some overpriced sex toy will cure what ails me), I have to admit that I am ashamed. Ashamed that, as I look back, it cannot be considered an eventful year. I did not live joyously, loudly, unabashedly as I had planned. I did not find joy in the small things, (besides the overwhelming joy I always find in Debbie cakes, of course). I did not take a firm grasp of my future by fully living the present. I just existed. Drifted along in a seemingly endless yet shallow sea of regrets, sadness and bittersweet memories until an internal bell rang, (or my cookie timer. Not sure…) and I realized that another year was OVER……and I was staring at the gnarled, creaky door that deposits me firmly in my thirties.

Another year, another chance, to DO something instead of just talking about it over and over………and over. It seems as though, with every year that passes, that window, the hopefulness, gets smaller and smaller. And I am so scared that my fattie fat ass won’t be able to squeeze through after a while.

However, with this oh so depressing thought comes a new mantra: I’m breaking down the fucking wall. I have been sitting on my dumplings waiting for some assistance, some lifeline, some clear as day Jesus-walking-on-water type of sign to truly pursue what I want out of this life. I don’t want to miss out on what could be mine. If that window closes, then my caramel latte-induced strength and energy will dig a tunnel. Bust through the wall. Scream the roof down with a shrillness that only dogs can hear. Forget this year. I jacked it up. Yeah. Whatever…… Gotta move past that. Bring it on, 33. This chunky bitch is ready for you.