I decided to stay in last night, to avoid the crushing disappointment of a shit night out on New Year's Eve. I hate the forced and fake bonhomie, I hate not knowing any of the words to Auld Lang Syne, I hate the mistimed countdowns and I hate not having someone to kiss at midnight. I hate waking up on the first day of the New Year with the same cunt of a hangover that I've carried for the past year, thinking plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. (I sometimes think things in French because I'm very pretentious).
So I stayed at home with my brother, sister and BGF. We played Wii badly, ate too much chocolate, played the Game of Life (Simpsons Edition) until I became despondent (shit job, no kids, living in Crone Condo, paying off my college debts...) and then made the exploding plaster of paris volcano that the BGF had given my brother for Christmas. We cast the mound, fidgeted while it dried and then attacked a quadrant each with poster paints (it was a competition... my effort is pictured below. I lost - too precise and too pretty, apparently. The brother's effort looked like a dorky Dalek, the BGF's was covered in shite coloured flowers and a brackish rainbow. Marks for effort, but poor execution. The sister won as hers was "most realistic" - it looked like scuttery curry running down the side.) The highly anticipated explosion was a bit of a let down; the baking soda bubbled like weak beer when we added the vinegar and the kitchen fucking stank. So this is what happens when you leave two art graduates, a sober alcoholic and a theoretical physicist to their own devices for the night. Wild, huh?
The Losing EntryFuck it though, there is a limit to the enjoyment drink and drug fuelled nights of wanton debauchery can give a girl. One occasionally needs to redress the balance with a night of all-out family-centred spazz-nerdery.
Done.
Now bring 2008 the fuck on.
