New Years Eve.
I say those words and I shudder. A lot.
I’ll be the first to admit I am neurotic….and dramatic, but do you know what boils my piss? THE NAIVETY OF NEW YEAR’S EVE.
Partying on New Year’s Eve and celebrating when the clock strikes midnight is comparable to gyrating violently next to a hot iron, or wearing shoes two sizes too big while running up and down a flight of stairs, or teasing a Rottweiler with a steak.
How ridiculously optimistic most of us are! How we flitter away the night laughing and joking unaware of the terror that may await us in the year to come.
As everyone cheerily wishes me Happy New Year, I often find myself vacantly staring into the abyss, a half empty glass in my hand, contemplating the array of terrible things that may come my way, a party streamer suddenly dropping on my head.
“Oh god, I might die.”
“Oh fuck, I really hope I don’t have a silly household accident and break a leg.”
“What if I develop a weird disease?”
“I hope I don’t suddenly start listening to One Direction.”
The list goes on and on. In fact the scenarios I can invent really are endless, my chest goes a bit tight, my clothes suddenly feel like they’re a condom I’ve been stuffed inside, that stale and soulless slice of quiche I ate earlier repeats and I do a deep, sickly belch.
None of us can predict the future, but I’d rather start as I mean to go on. I may develop a weird disease come March, but at least I wasn’t naive enough to think it wouldn’t happen. At least I won’t sit in A&E reflecting sadly on how rosy everything seemed when I was downing prosecco and jiving to Earth, Wind and Fire.
This is why on NYE I drink, but never party. I watch Jools Holland in my baggy, ugliest clothes making snarky, bitter comments and beginning the coming year with defiance before crawling my way into bed.
You won’t beat me, fate. You evasive bastard!
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