Thursday, March 22, 2007

Month Three Hundred and Seventy-Two

(With apologies to Dooce)

Dear Working:
You are three hundred and seventy-two months old today. Three hundred and seventy-two? Wow. I thought it would be more. It definitely feels more like three hundred and seventy-five.

I’m amazed by the changes you’ve gone through in the last year. I mean, last summer you were practically blond! Then you went kind of dark. Then kind of red and now back to dark, but with serious roots. Here’s to cleaning those up by April.

You’ve gotten so big! And I don’t think that’s a good thing, really. You aren’t in fact pregnant, so it’s really not a good look, Muriel. You’re confusing the people.

Your favorite shows are Coronation Street, Amazing Race, Lost, Grey’s Anatomy, Frazier reruns, House… You know, you really do watch a lot of TV. Maybe you should rethink that.

You love to write and you discover new words every day. Unfortunately, you’re not the great novelist you thought you’d be by now. You’ve never gotten past 50,000 words and nothing ever published so actually, you’re not really a novelist at all.

And you’re broke.

And this year, you look older.

Okay, so three hundred and seventy-two months is f*cking bleak.

But think of it this way; you have a fun job.

This week you got off your ass for some solid work outs.

TV isn’t holding your attention as much anymore and there's a new story idea that has you a bit stoked.

And one year ago today, Trevor asked you to marry him and you did. That was a good move. The best of your life, possibly.

So well done, Working.

Looking forward to Month Three Hundred and Eighty-Five.

Happy Birthday!

Love,
Working

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