I spent my New Year's Eve with the feeling you get right before you throw up, but milder, and with no after-effect. You know how your mouth kind of gets tingly and your stomach starts sounding like the heater's kicking on? Then later Levi came home from the party I was supposed to be at and smelled like a whore I like to call dinner -- I missed out on tender, juicy brisket, and chocolate mousse. Poop. I did not miss out on that. The poop.
I also spent my New Year's Eve not getting paid $600,000, ala Kim Kardashian. You put your best ass on, show up at a party, drop a fourteen carat turd in the punch bowl, then go home and wait for your check to show up. That dirty hoe already ruined my resolution to never be crabby.
May I just say that I enjoy Leopold Brothers' Rocky Mountain Peach Whiskey? It's something that helped me write a letter to my neighbor whose dog beast frequently indulges in three hour long barking marathons. And since our walls are made of gingerbread and plastic siding, we can kind of hear that shit. It was a kind letter. A helpful letter. And Levi advised me, properly, I think, to not print it out on our shotgun-shaped paper. So there's that new beginning.
Everyone seems to think their 2011 was terrible. Which I'm starting to think is what happens every year. Which helps me understand why you never see anyone walking around before 1pm on New Year's Day. So, it's currently 9:54pm -- I guess good morning, everyone. And here's to a year that will probably be pretty okay, but that you'll end up hating enough by December 31st that you will say yes to the champagne keg stand and later get caught making out with a stranger's parakeet.
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