DON'T LET THE DOOR HIT YOU ON THE WAY OUT
I've spent the last few days trying to write a reasonable review of my 2004. How do you get past the untimely demise of your wee pup at the paws of a dog named "Happy" in February? With this portent of doom, should I have taken to my bed for the remainder of the year?
Granted there was copious joy -- holding Hugh in my arms for the first time in January, marrying Derek atop a rather windy Tank Hill in July and meeting Samantha just a few weeks ago.
Woven into the joy was a diagnosis of Graves' disease (that would explain my stellar impression of Rip Van Winkle) in April/May, a bicycle accident in September and the belle of November's ball -- Shingles.
What can I say about my adventure with Shingles? Not much that wouldn't be best described by a string of very naughty words strung together, guaranteed to curl your hair. I've come through it with a greater appreciation for Class 2 medications and a few angry scars on the back of my left leg. Unfortunately the Shingles trashed my immunity and I've been fighting one cold or another since Thanksgiving.
If you believe that "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger," then I'm made of fucking steel, baby.
Dear 2004, I love you, now please fuck off. Best, Heather.
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