My Baby Takes the Morning Train

Today, I signed up for NaBloPoMo, which stands for National Blog Post Month. Apparently, the folks there have gotten hip to the declining attention spans of Americans because last year, they had me signed up to write a novel (NaNoMo) but this year they have lowered their standards and just want me to write one blog post a day. Even on weekends. Fine, I think, I’m a good blogger, and this is doable. So I sign up.

But today is not a good day. Just like yesterday wasn’t a very good day, or Sunday, or Saturday. I’ve been promising myself for four days that I will hit rock bottom and start climbing back up, but it hasn’t happened yet, and let me be the first to tell you that enduring 4 days of hoping things are so bad they can’t any worse is a tad bit draining. Point being: Write a blog entry? Are you kidding me?

But I signed up for Nannablopog, or whatever. So I had to. I was considering doing an entry analyzing the various colors of yellow instatiated in my carefully monitored (by me) abundant flow of mucus today. Frankly, I’m kind of into my snot, so I maybe others would find it interesting, too. But then I thought maybe a few queasy readers might think it was fatally repulsive (including my mom, and she’s my biggest ((only)) fan).

So instead, I decided to write about the only good thing that happened to me all day. While I was in Duane Reade purchasing sugar-free cough drops, My Baby Takes The Morning Train came on. I love love love that song. A smile so big it kind of hurt (unused muscles) burst onto my face. The next thing I knew, Shannon and I were skipping out of Duane Reade, and even though my roommates have been referring to me as the “Frog Princess” on account of my gravelly voice, I was singing.

I was just trying to comfort someone last night saying that no one really had any reason to be depressed or anxious in life, because we ought to realize that the little “stupid” things were more likely to make us happy than the big ones. (i.e Going through with novel writing month. who needs it?) If Sheena Easton doesn’t prove me right, well, then…who cares? As a proud member of Generation O, I am entitled to continue being optimistic, at least until the 2nd or 3rd time I don’t get what I want.

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