A Prediction Of Your New Year's Eve
11am: You wake up late and lounge around in your pajamas for a while, trying to avoid the fact that you made a commitment to leave the house for this godforsaken, vomit-fueled, expensive romp through the known and disliked. Why didn't you just stay home, considering this year doesn't deserve any celebration whatsoever. To procrastinate the inevitable, you scroll through a Best Of list for television, which is one of the only last things you care about in this world. Here's a note: if The People Vs OJ Simpson isn't on the best of list, the author of the list has been taken over by aliens.
12pm: To prepare for a night of shoving poison into your body via plastic cups and watered down Titos, you decide to eat your weight in carbs, like a marathon runner but with none of the motivation or work involved with that. So shove your bagel down your throat. If you are lucky, you will choke on the bagel, sort of die, and visit the world in the OA where you eat a bird and enter another dimension that doesn't involve NYE.
2pm: You get a text from your friend--want to meet around 8 and like an idiot, you accept. Here's a New Year's resolution: throw your phone in the trash and never make plans again. Grab a satin-y kerchief and live like the women in Grey Gardens, bereft of societal standards and cleaning supplies.
3pm: you dirty little pig girl, now you're going to finally shower?
3:30pm: Nope! You need to stare at your Instagram feed in a towel, as if the happy celebrations and selfies will give you some kind of awareness to the world around you and the connections you choose to have. It won't. The low buzz of The Twilight Zone marathon doesn't hide what you feel: you are in your own Twilight Zone, and this is your life forever.
4:15pm: Now you are showered, and you have had one beer. Correection--half a lukewarm beer that kind of travels with you on all your countertops, sweating all over them like you in a dressing room at Forever21. You listen to "pump up" music in your towel, the bleating tunes of The Weeknd, on your bed, with your hair wet. You wear a face of stony silence, of a woman who has been cursed with the inability to say no to social events she feels are required of her.
5:30pm: Are you hungry? Kind of. Turns out one giant bagel won't last all day, because your appetite is made of the desire to experience futile delights. But do you eat something? Roll this around on your tongue for a while. What if you eat something and then the watered down Tito's doesn't get you drunk? What if you don't eat enough and you have to drink people's blood and the wrappers of Werther's originals, littering the bathroom line? The only question to help you: What is everybody else eating? Your friend says he had a burger at the 4pm (who the fuck does that!) and now you feel hungry. Not the pangs of true hunger, of course, but the pangs of boredom. You will eat a handful of cereal, a piece of toast, and three screams.
6:15pm: You need to be out of your house in 45 minutes and just now, like Icarus who flew so close to the sky, you will decide to try something new with your makeup. It's either a smoky eye, a new kind of wing, or false eyelashes. That's it. But instead, you have smeared mascara underneath your eye, and the curse words you have screamed have frightened all of Cinderella's helpful birds to death. And your hair is looking flat. And you have lipstick on your teeth. And you need to find the only pair of non-ripped tights that you have. And your one shoe. And you can't get your bracelet on. And you're actually still naked on your bed with a towel. And your life is not deemed by the stroke of midnight, but all the hours you have wasted to get there.
7:56pm: In the end, you look amazing. To your friend via text, you're on your way. But in reality, you are ever the modern day Narcissus, and you take mirror selfies over and over again before your body ends up in the river, peaceful.
8:30pm: You leave the house and forget the beer you have promised to bring that is still in the icebox, so sweet and so cold. You get 5 Corona Light and One Corona at the bodega because that was all they had, as you will always almost fail.
8:45pm: The cheese your friend has nobly promised you is almost all gone and you are hungry, so for your dinner you eat three pieces of cheddar, a slice of brie rind, a cold Parmesan Pup from Trader Joe's with most of the croissant gone, and a dollop of Sabra hummus off of a plastic spoon. Your friend offers you a shot, and like Neo or Eminem or Air Bud before you, you take it.
9:30pm: You haven't left the house for the next destination, one that you no doubt paid an arm and a leg and your measly paycheck and some dignity for, but you're jumping on the couch like wasted money means nothing to you at the moment. For the first time, you are truly free.
9:45pm: You get on the subway with a bunch of people who act like 12pm midnight was three hours ago, and one of those people is you, but you never catch your reflection in the subway car so you never see it.
10:30pm: You get one drink at the open bar after it takes ten minutes to check your coat, which will float unnoticed between a few Gap peacoats and a rat who has become the king of Fabric Mountain. Then, to get that one drink, you have to shove your way through 84 bros who are all high-fiving each other over something like cool like Pizza or Tinder, like a giant sea of waves and people who will insist Bernie Sanders would have
11pm: You ask your friends around you if they have any singles, which nobody does, because nobody ever does, and so you fish nobly and pull one out of the bottom of your purse that smells like Altoids and couch lint. You get one more watery drink like it is a favor to yourself.
11:15pm: Now, you wait on the bathroom for 20 minutes with a bunch of people who are leaning on each other and crying like you're at a Tony Robbins seminar. You still manage to compliment one girl on her makeup and hair, and another on her dress. You wade through the piss and toilet water to take another picture in the mirror, and refuse to ask yourself if you are having fun, yet.
11:35pm: You promise yourself you will never do this again, just like you did the last time. Question: if you leave now, with all your credit cars and identification, could you start a new life in Morocco?
11:40pm: you get stuck into a conversation about somebody's Christmas vacation, which is about as interesting as eating a piece of cardboard.
11:50pm: Everybody is trampled to death to get one more drink at the bar as well as a plastic flute of cheap champagne, breaking on the bottom, which tastes like old ginger ale mixed with lime juice.
12am: Massive screaming, some kissing with people you don't want to kiss, and a million joke about how 2016 sucks.
12:15am: Bathroom. 35 minutes. Next time, Adult Diaper.
12:50am: Shots. The famous last words. The demise of the noble. The demise of us all. The poison flows directly into our veins, as it should.
1-2am: Text. Pee. Text. Pee. You stop reapplying your lipstick, a little sign you only give up when you truly have fun.
2:15am: Whether you are the kind of person who goes home on the subway or pays the 4x Uber surge is up to you, Lady Moneypants.
2:20am: If you're the type of person who wants to go to another club, none of this is for you, but I suspect you believe the world is in your own hands, all the time.
2:50am: The pizza is on your dress. You are exactly where you were last year, and at 10 years old. The pizza on your shirt represents all you have lost for what you deemed worthy to gain.
3:00am: Next year will be like how you end this year: futile, funnish, a waste of money, and full of peeing. Some dancing.