F**K NEW YEAR’S EVE
This is the worst day of the year, no matter what happened in the previous 364 or 365. The absolute freaking worst day of the year.
NEW YEAR’S EVE.
Anyone who is out tonight partying has a serious mental disease. What the FUCK is wonderful about celebrating the changing of a calendar? What, is your life magically going to be better when the last digit of the year changes from “2” to “3” at midnight? Are you going to suddenly have millions in your bank account? Are your debts going to be erased and forgotten? Are you going to lose 100 pounds if you’re obese?
HELL NO. You are the same person on the first day of January as you were on the last day of December, and you are the same person on the first day of January of the new year as you were on the first day of January of the old year.
One of the worst traditions of New Year’s Eve are marriage proposals.
My dumbass brother proposed to his controlling wife on New Year’s Eve. I knew he had problems (which is weird, since he was a straight-A student in high school and college, unlike me, who barely scraped by), but that confirmed it. This woman couldn’t keep her first marriage together, and now she has my clueless sibling on a leash shorter than what Homer puts on Santa’s Little Helper in The Simpsons.
New Year’s Eve is one of a few cliché days for proposals. The others are Christmas Eve and Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Thanksgiving to a lesser extent. What the hell is wrong with proposing on a random day, say August 13?
Another terrible tradition is the ball dropping in Times Square. WHAT THE FUCK? God bless Dick Clark, but he forced this shit down our throats beginning in 1972, and it has continued with Ryan Seacrest.
In New Orleans, some assholes have celebrated the new year by firing guns into the air. In 1994, those falling bullets killed Amy Silberman, a Boston resident who was in the French Quarter with friends. Sickening.
Resolutions are more bullshit about New Year’s Eve. Like anyone keeps them. I quit trying many, many, MANY years ago. You only hate yourself if you can’t keep it.
Dressing up for parties is asinine. Yes, by all means ladies should go out and spend $300 for a dress they won’t wear again, or a man should spend $300 to rent a tuxedo which has been worn hundreds of times and probably been puked on at least a dozen. I refuse to wear clothes someone else did. I’m very lucky I was the first born in my family so I didn’t have to wear hand-me-downs.
I have sworn I must turn in for bed by 2200 (10 pm). No ifs, ands or buts. For the second consecutive year, I will be sleeping through the NYE bullshit at the Sheraton West Des Moines.
See you next year. Your lazy blogger will be the same lazy blogger he was in 2022, but hopefully posting more often.
Posted on 2022-12-31, in Opinion. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.
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