(no subject)
Flimsily, drunkenly, and consecutively the chorus of off-beat Happy-New-Years came and went-not knowing what else there was left to do, each of us attempted, in our own decadent way, to disregard the slow, prosaic depression that follows in the wake of overrated, bullshit holidays. Flimsily, habitually, indiscreetly each of us passed out or tripped in pairs and groups of three into unfamiliar bedrooms. People averted their eyes from the vomit that clogged the bathroom sink as they pissed into a frothy yellow toilet. The entire apartment reeked of smuggled liquor, pilfered from parental liquor cabinets by nervous youths, who, after a few smelly shots, would feel invincible. After a few more smelly shots, they would feel loving, and lovable, and impregnable.
The adolescent reek of churned stomach made people skip making out and move right to groping and feeling. By this time every shaking bedroom was filled and every shit-faced body was too inebriated to notice their blaring cell phones, concerned parents supplying a shrill symphony of ring tones, or notice or give a shit about another nineteen year old boy with his pants down. By morning, the couch would be stained with sweat, and the shining girls of last night would transform into faded, raccoon faced sixteen year olds.
I tripped over someone’s shoes as I got up and dropped my half-full bottle of Smirnoff. Fuck. I wanted to leave, I wanted to finish that bottle, I wanted my headache to go away, I wanted a happy fucking new year, but I couldn’t think straight and all I knew was I didn’t want to feel like I got dressed up for nothing. I sat back on the couch and let an imitation Rolex resume its prior activity of making its way up my skirt. I closed my eyes, I told myself it was better than freezing in Times Square with a bunch of half-buzzed idiots, shivering with cold and excitement, watching the God damn ball slowly descend, it’s too slow and too predictable to ever really drop, like it does every God damn year.
By morning I would be another disappointed, raccoon-eyed seventeen year old, too predictably tired to answer the cab driver’s glaring morning, Bangladeshi accented, teasing, mocking, degraded, demeaning “Happy New Year.” He didn’t expect an answer, after all, the ball fucking drops every year.
