Kimmy Schmitt, you are way too important to me

Last night I thought I was dying. I thought of everything I would miss if I died.

The third season of The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmitt was number one on my “I can’t die because the second season was so brilliant and the ending. OMGOD the ending. A lot of my regrets concerning dying centered around TV.

Least you think I’m a totally superficial, insanely crazy person with no interests but TV (I budget for every cable station and many Roku stations) I choose to cry over TV because crying over the people in my life is too sad. I can’t.

There’s a whole generation of young women I want to see establish then succeed in their careers, maybe fall in love, maybe have children, definitely travel. Well two young un’s but considering that I never had kids I think that’s pretty good.

I want to travel, write a best seller, at least be taken seriously and compensated for the advice people constantly ask me for.

I had to stop thinking about all this as I began throwing up phlegm. I’ll leave any descriptions to your imagination. It was beyond gross and went on for hours. Fortunately I remembered the plastic garbage bag trick from some friends who shall remain nameless drinking days.

I got out of bed, got a new plastic bag, and lay down on the living room couch. One of my oldest friends messaged me with the results of his DNA test. Normally I would have been half clever. Instead I was dull, boring, who cares?

I wanted to die. Death would be a good thing. If the ending was quick I could leave the young women enough money to rent nicer apartments for awhile, maybe put a down payment on a condo, take a trip or two, do something fun.

In the next month I’m supposed to go to two graduations and a wedding. The sister of the young man getting married just had a baby.

All that was missing was a death. And I knew who was going to die.

But the ending of the last episode of the second of Kimmy Schmitt. Reason to live. (Not giving anything away when I say that my last reason to live was Mad Men. OK maybe I just did.)

My nose is beginning to be stuffed. My forehead is pulsating. I’m freezing though it’s in the 70’s. Coughing makes my ribs hurt.

Or maybe it’s my lungs that hurt. All I really care about is ending up with two working lungs. And a working nose. A working brain would be good also.

It’s 4:26 PM and I see the mail truck pull up. I want to be angry at the mailman but I can’t work up the energy. Or the brain cells.