This afternoon I wandered along the steamy aisles of Carrefour (the air-conditioning was down) mourning the impermanence of identity and the horrible truth that Bossypants, the much-anticipated book by my mentor and life-coach Tina Fey, hasn't arrived in stores yet. I had naively subscribed to the idea that I could perform miracles and think-into-existence a menu for my sister's birthday dinner by strolling around a supermarket much like Jamie Oliver in a farmer's co-op, and handpick gorgeous produce that will become a similarly gorgeous salad, on a gorgeous wooden salad bowl I forgot to buy in Tasmania. Of course, all the vegetables were limp and sad by the time I arrived, but I'd prefer to imagine their future in the compost heap as a promising, selfless and edifying one.
Anyway, I really hope that my plans for tomorrow will work out. But if they don't, it's going to be even more fun!
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At this point — and it does seem like a non sequitur that I'm broaching this but believe me it isn't — I think my lungs are starting to say Hey buddy we're sorry but your youth is fleeting. I have forgotten how it's like to breathe normally. I hope it's something serious, because a long, quiet stay in a hospital would be so awesome right now. Oh, to finally get to read all my books in the ward wearing a cool blue hospital gown and a drip stuffed up my vein!
(Also I have been re-united with my iPod shuffle that disappeared after the Great Accident of 2009.)
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