I think New Year's Eve is the most over-rated holiday in the history of mankind. I've never liked the celebration. I don't get it, why choose this day to consider, and reflect on the past year. To me it's just another day. I spend every day remembering all the mistakes I made in the past week or opportunities I missed in the last month.
I don't need a special day to commemorate my fuck ups.
I remember when I was little, I was traumatized by my mom running into my room at midnight waking me from a sound sleep, and telling me to get excited cause some glass apple was dropping from a flag pole.
I can't remember a good New Year's Eve. They always are pretty stupid, lots of planning, and no pay off. At least Christmas I get presents, on July 4th I get baseball, fireworks and bbq, Thanksgiving I get Turkey, on New Year's Eve one is suppossed to get drunk......and dance.
Dance.....like there's no tommorrow.
I can....and do....get drunk at anytime. I'll get drunk to celebrate my dog barfing on the hall floor instead of the carpet. I used to dance a lot, got to clubs, and dance my ugly ass off, but that was so I could get laid. Rub up against some girl trying, usually unsuccessfully, to get them hot and bothered. I'd dance alone too, to illustrate to the ladies I didn't need their attention to have fun....even though I wasn't really having fun, just trying to look like I was having fun, so when some girl eventurally danced with me they'd THINK it was just dancing when I grabbed their ass, not just me touching their ass cause I was horny....even though I really was.
But I'm married now, I don't need to look and dance like a Backstreet Boy to pick up girls.
So now New Year's Eve is just useless, an excuse to have a lame party.
A perfect example of a typical New Year's Eve was when I was in England, (as if I'm a world traveler), a bunch of my friends and I from college were in London for a Theatre trip. All we talked about for months was how we were going to party like crazy in London on New Year's Eve. Go to Piccadilly Square, (spelled something like that, I'm too lazy to use spell check), go nuts, and drunk, kiss some hot, exotic British chick, then go to a pub with them, and get more drunk and hopefully get laid by a different hot, exotic British chick.....maybe even with both.
The night arrived, and one of us, I don't remember who, thought it would be a great Idea to check out a play we had tickets for BEFORE midnight. We didn't have anything planned, two of our friends decided that they would rather rest before the festivities.We had rented a car, so transportation wasn't an issue, the play started at 7, surely plenty of time to get back to pick our friends up before we headed up to Picadilly square, so why not?
Well the play, Blood Brothers, a british musical turned out to be pretty lame, even though our friend Louise said it would be great. We got out at around 10:30, and realized we should probably hurry back to get to our friends. We jumped in the car and promptly got stuck in horrible traffic. Actually I wouldn't really call it traffic, traffic would give one the idea that there was potential for movement.
We were not moving while the engine was on.
Eventually, my friend thought he could manuever AROUND the traffic, and decided to stray off the main road. If one knows anything about driving around London, they'll know that the streets are actually a sick maze disguised as roads. There's roundabouts, dead ends, off-ramps, and no reliable signs on the road, not to mention they drive on the wrong fucken side of the street.
Needless to say we got lost, when we tried to ask for directions, we ran into the man with the thickest Cockney accent in the world....at least I thought that was what he was speaking, it could have been Arabic for all I know. We judged from his gestures that he was telling us to go around a couple of corners and we'd be okay. But in retrospect I believe he was telling us to fuck off and we just misinterpreted. So luckily, we finally found a taxi cab, actually we almost crashed into him while we were looking for signs. My friend had the genius idea to pay the cab to drive to our hotel, while the rest of the gang followed in our car behind the cab. So I ran out of the car, and jumped into the front seat telling the cabbie to drive me to my hotel. Well, If one knows anything about Cabs in London they'll know that the cabs don't have a front passenger seat, just a flat work space. After about two minutes of trying to seem cool in the front, the cabbie "suggested" that I sit in the back seat.
The Cabbie promptly took us to the main road.....where we were once again stuck in horrible traffic. I realized this was hopeless, and paid the cabbie, jumped out of the cab, and back in the car with the rest of my friends.
Eventually.....finally, we made it to the hotel. It was 11:15. We ran out of our cars to look for our two friends, after about 10 minutes of looking we realized that they had left, angry, actually thinking we had abandoned them. At 11:30 we looked at each other, and realized it was a lost cause. There was no way we could get to Picadilly Square in time.
We decided to try something within walking distance. We had heard that there was a party in a restaurant several blocks away. We ran to the site, only to see a huge line. Our hopes were dashed. Being unusually optimistic I suggested we just run to the local pub, where we had many a night getting trashed. A few of my friends declined, giving in to the unusual bad luck. But two of my friends, and I ran full sprint to the pub, we got there with a minute to spare...only to be turned away at the door, because pub was too full.
When the countdown came, a friend decided to jump on a short wall, and peek into the pub perhaps to see what was going on inside, maybe he just wanted to see if there was any hot girls inside.
I joined him not noticing the irony of my actions.
Like always I was on the outside looking in, seeing people celebrating a silly holiday, not understanding, or experiencing the joy it seemed to bring to people.
I still don't know.
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