It is 10:00 PM on New Year’s Eve.
The night starts out amazing. You and I pre-game together, and I meet your ex-girlfriend. Her name is Monica, and she says she never made you a turkey sandwich with Cheetos during the time you dated. I knew I was better than her.
We have so much to drink, and even more to eat. Wait. Who ate my cheese platter? I hope it was you. But it was probably me. You look so cute in your Patagonia jacket, and your khaki pants, and your Sperrys. I just want to kiss you, but you keep shoving your bottle of Evan Williams in front of me, telling me to “Get wrecked like Bobby Petrino.” You decide to play a game called “Edward New Year’s Hands” with a bottle of what you call “fine scotch” strapped to both hands instead of tasting my kiss.
I keep eating. I keep drinking. Suddenly there is a dance party. We are all dancing to your buddy Shep’s New Year’s mix, and Gangnam Style comes on, but then you kick the stereo system and yell, “PSY is NF!”
What is NF? Am I NF? Does NF mean not fat? You make me laugh, even when you turn off the TV I was watching, yelling “Wagon Wheel is more American than this Ryan Seacrest bullshit on TV!”
We stumble outside — you, me, Monica and the rest of the crew. Tonight is going to be the night! I can feel it, even if I can’t feel my face because this tight dress is cutting off the circulation to my neck rolls. Why does Monica’s fit so much better? Wait, am I the only one who ordered and ate the traditional New Year’s cheese platter?
We all head to the city square. Fireworks are going off. I want to stand right next to you, but you tell me that all you want to do is “Make love to your brothers, Jack D and Jim Beam.” I thought New Year’s was about you, wine, me and cheese, but I want what’s best for you. You start talking to this one girl, I remember her from freshman year. All the guys in your fraternity called her “Lohan,” and she was ALWAYS at your house. Why didn’t you invite me to stay over?
It is almost time for the midnight kiss. We take some more shots. I am so excited. I am going to share this with you! As we get closer and closer, I see the other girls moving away from you, because you’re on the phone.
“Yelling at his bookie,” your friend John Parker tells me.
You seem angry. Why would someone be mad that they placed a $400 bet on Northern Illinois to beat the spread in a bowl? That sounds big. $400 spread in a bowl. Are you taking me to New Year’s brunch?
The clock strikes midnight, but wait…these lips aren’t yours! Eww, they taste so weird and young, but strangely I come to enjoy them. I look over at you, and we lock eyes. But then you start laughing at me, as does John Parker. I JUST KISSED ANOTHER GUY WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?
I am so mad at you, so I turn to leave with this younger boy. Why are you winking at him? He is cute. I tell him he looks like a young Tim Allen. He tells me I look like a female J.J. Watt. Is that a good thing?
We go home. I am ready. This is going to be the best New Year’s sex yet. We strip down, one layer after another. This already feels a lot better than what you put me through, because he’s forgotten to ask for any sandwiches. Me and young Tim Allen start kissing, passionately. I’m getting hot, this is going to be amazing! He is about to be inside me, and then splat! GROSS! THERE IS WHITE STUFF ON HIS EVAN WILLIAMS BOTTLE! What is with you boys!?!
He tells me, “Sorry, I’m pretty much like Mark Sanchez in bed.” I do not understand. I find it even more repulsive that he took a swig of his tainted Evan Williams bottle. We both go to sleep. I am hungry. Is IHOP open on New Year’s?
It is 9:45 AM. The young Tim Allen wakes up. He tells me, “Hi my name is Pledge Kumar.” I do not understand the reference, he is lily white with no form of accent.
He continues, “You were outsourced to me for New Year’s.”
I will haunt you.
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