Emergency, emergency!

Yes, it looks like I've placed a golfball in my cheek. Don't worry. It also feels like I did. Goodbye wisdom teeth, all four of you, though you won't be missed. A slew of things happened in the last 24 hours. Namely, I passed out from dehydration/liquid diet/vicodin/losing so much blood.

I scared a whole bunch of people, namely my parents who probably thought I was dead. So when I regained conciousness, my family had crowded around me while paramedics were marching through the back door. Of course, the first thing I did was give a small beauty queen wave and timidly said, "Oh hey guys, how's it going?" I really need an on-site monologue writer to pass me better quips.

This bed ridden business is not cool. I wish I were with Di and Phuong at Cole's instead. Or doing arts and crafts at Phuong's place. In light of everything, I just need to keep in mind these following words: "Every time I get injured I measure it's severity by asking myself 'Would this stop me from going to Disneyland?'" - Chris Colfer

And to be honest, no. Despite all the bleeding and fainting, I would be first in line with a wheelchair smuggled from the hospital.

endings

December heralded so much dismay that it seemed impossible to escape that vortex of 31 heart stomping days. Break downs, break ups and make ups, phone calls in search of a connection, everything felt tragic to the point of comedic humility. But now we stretch through the torrents of rain for the patch of sunlight to grow and heal our battered hearts. Hippie pyscho shit? No, it's optimism that it can't get worse. Is it really necessary to spit on me after you've broken my shins and taken a kidney?

January will recite moments of mourning but February, glorious February, must hold redemption for the nonsense of the past year.