My new favorite game EVZ

So, 2010 is turning out to be a real titty twister of a year for old yours truly. Which, of course, is an upsetting statement as we're only 19 days in. Only 346 more days to go! Haha........hah.

It all started at the stroke of midnight on January first when my stomach packed up it's bags, turned off the lights, triple checked that the coffee maker was turned off and made it's painful exit through various awkward and embarrassing parts of my body. After that I fell into an oddly deep depression and now I might be getting fired. I know I worry about getting fired a lot, but I'm filing this time under the For Realz For Realz account. I've envisioned myself getting fired from this job literally hundreds of times and 99.9% of those times involve one of my bosses casually asking if I know what a "2birds1blog is," me grabbing a box, packing up my things and leaving quietly. Shockingly, the trouble I'm currently in has nothing to do with the blog. I'd give you the details but it's nothing I didn't manically vent to Becky about last night over five Stellas, and I think even she got bored. (Sidenote: did you know that Becky got custody of the fish from The Real World DC house? In addition to already having Lily Hearst's dog? Becky's like the TMZ of pets and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed.) The moral of the story is that my bosses, as per usual, didn't communicate to me something that they wanted done, thus I didn't do it, and now they're in trouble with corporate and I'm afraid I might be on the chopping block. Ugh...and this really isn't helping the ulcer. Or the depression.

But! Instead of piling on the eyeliner, sharpening my razor and blasting Please, Please, Please Let Me Get Want I Want on repeat (all things sadly in character,) I'm going to share with you something that I find hee-larious. I think this might be one of those things that only me and Tulane Chris find funny due to our mutual inappropriate senses of humor, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume you'll appreciate it too.

So I was g-chatting with Tulane Chris the other day and not doing whatever it was Boss #1 never asked me to do when Chris started talking about an irritating friend he had in college. (No, not Terry Cooper.) Apparently one time this friend casually asked over cocktails, "So, who here has been sexually abused?" which Chris pointed out is the "WORST TEN FINGERS QUESTION EVER." This was, and still is, the funniest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. If you've never heard of The Ten Fingers Game before (clearly you didn't go to summer camp...) it's when you and a group of people get in a circle, hold out ten fingers and go around making "Never have I ever..." statements. If you've done something that someone else says they've never done, you put down a finger. First person to put down all ten fingers wins. Or loses. Or drinks. Or is a slut or something. Normally the statements are really asinine and light like, "Never have I ever broken a bone" or "Never have I ever been to Montreal," but if you're playing with close friends, it can be fun to purposely call someone out and say something like, "Never have I ever given a hand job in a public park" and look directly at the friend who has and giggle and LOLZ. However, it's a horse of an entirely different shade of hilarious if you're like, "Never have I ever...been sexually abused" and look directly at your friend who has been as she hangs her head in shame and slowly retracts a shaking finger. Chris and I then spent the rest of the afternoon imagining this game in increasingly innapropriate contexts until we created the following list. (Mine are in red and Chris' are in purple. Which has a very star-spangled effect that adds a nice little patriotic flair to the game.)

Meg & Tulane Chris' List of Grossly Inappropriate Never Have I Ever Statements:

- Never have I ever shown anyone on the doll...

- Never have I ever been a cutter in middle school because I had low self-esteem and no father figure to reinforce my value

- Never have I ever cared for you, Darla

- Never have I ever had to go to family counseling

- Never have I ever had to participate in my parents' Christian Marriage Therapy exercises

- Never have I ever been fingered at a Christian youth group overnight lock in

- Never have I ever given birth in the bathroom at prom, murdered the baby, and gone on with my evening

- Never have I ever gotten fisted and had to go onto a teen advice website to ask if I'm still technically a virgin

- Never have I ever done it "for him"

- Never had I ever had to call the cops when daddy "corrected" mommy one too many times

- Never have I ever not known I was pregnant

- Never have I ever been related to someone on Intervention

- Never have I ever been warned that this will be the last intervention

- Never have I ever uncovered buried memories

- Never have I ever slept with my therapist

- Never have I ever asked my mom if my boyfriend could move into our basement because things are getting kind of rough at home

- Never have I ever shaken a baby

- Never have I ever considered "clowning" an actual career

- Never have I ever had my tuition check for clown school bounce

- Never have I ever prayed on it

- Never have I ever attended a prayer service in which I held my hands palm-forward at chest level, closed my eyes, and swayed

- Never have I ever attended a state school

- Never have I ever really, really, really loved a woman

- Never have I ever avoided my Uncle for sexual reasons

- Never have I ever found time to be with my Uncle for sexual reasons

- Never have I ever bred dogs

- Never have I ever bred pygmy horses

- Never have I ever attended a cancer survivor support group

- Never have I ever had a job where I had to wear a pin with my name printed on it, made from a label maker

- Never have I ever had to show someone on a map where my native country is

- Never have I ever referred to camping in my trailer as "The Wilderness"

- ONCE have I ever interviewed for an office job and been hired as a dishwasher

- ONCE have I ever had sex with someone with a hearing aid, not known and then regretted it after finding out based solely on the fact that it's technically a disability

- ONCE have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Drew Barrymore

- Never have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Dr. Drew



...Yes? No? Just funny to me and Chris? Do not past go? Do not collect $100? Go directly to hell? K. Thought so. I'm gonna go get fired now.

I'm back, bitches.

You may have noticed that Meg hasn't posted an entry since last Wednesday and has been out "sick" all week. Well, I guess it's time to come clean. You may know Meghan McBlogger a little bit better by her real name—Casey Johnson.

BWAHAHA, just kidding. I'm right here. Alive. (Oh. Meg, that is. Not Casey Johnson. I'm pretty sure she actually is dead.) (By the way: Casey Johnson jokes. Too soon? Not soon enough? Yes? No? 17 carat hole in my head courtesy of Tila Tequila? Thought so.) But the Meghan McBlogger/Casey Johnson thing would explain my anonymity and sudden disappearance pretty glamorously though, right? Unfortunately I've just been genuinely sick and overall...out of it. And by "out of it," I clearly mean depressed. But that's ok, it happens to the best of us. And...by "us," I clearly mean people with Depression. People with Depression tend to get depressed; an irritating little fact. So I apologize for my disappearance, but every now and then I need to lock myself in my apartment and sleep for 16 hours a day, waking only to cry and drink Pepto Bismol. And watch a few episodes of Maude on Youtube. Because, you know, viva Bea Arthur. Plus, you really wouldn't want me to blog when I'm depressed. My entries would be like "The 20 Male Poses of Facebook TO KILL YOURSELF BY". And "Ambien & Evie & MORE AMBIEN & WHISKEY". BUT! I'm fine. I'm still here, doin' my thang. In fact, I just made the unique decision of unwinding from work by watching Inglorious Basterds for the first time. Alone. And Jesus Crush do I regret that decision. Don't get me wrong, it was totally badass and I highly recommend it, but I was in no way emotionally prepared for how violent and disturbing it was and I sort of wish I hadn't watched it alone. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting. It is, after all, a Quentin Tarantino film about killing Nazis. I knew what I was getting myself into. It's not like I popped in Mary Poppins and SHOCK! it turned out to be Schindler's List. This is like the time Alex called to see if I wanted to come over and watch Jarhead with him. I politely declined because I wasn't really in the mood and he jovially said he'd go ahead and watch it alone. He called back a few hours later and squaked out, "Meg...............Jarhead is not a romantic comedy." No, Alex, Jarhead is not a romantic comedy. And Inglorious Basterds isn't a lighthearted Nazi romp. These are the days of our lives...

MORAL OF THE STORY: I'm not dead. Although to be fair, it totally looks like I tried to slice open my right wrist, which is only slightly embarrassing. To clarify, I didn't try to kill myself. I mean, I'm depressed, but like listen to The Smiths, watch Shopgirl and cry and cry and cry depressed, not playin' the old wrist violins depressed. And more to the point, I didn't even do this to my wrist—my doctor did. Yeah that's right, I actually went to the doctor. And look what happened. Who's the "immature" and "unhealthy" one now, huh??

It all started on New Year's Eve (because of course it did. As discussed, only horrible things happen on New Year's Eve.) I really did get sick, that wasn't just a bullshit cover for being depressed. (Ain't no shame in my game. Lord knows you're not psyched 100% of the time.) After I ate lunch, I had what can only be eloquently described as an "explosive stomach situation." I assumed I had food poisoning because I made the somewhat questionable decision of getting tuna salad from an establishment that shall remain nameless because I can't afford foods that aren't in the gummy family, nevertheless a law suit. Let's just say I don't know what I was thinking when I went to the establishment in Adams Morgan that sells novelty over sized pizza slices to drunk people at 4 o'clock in the morning and thought, "Ooo! I bet they have great seafood!" I assumed I'd be fine after a day or so, but when the explosive part cleared up, the painful stomach situation still lingered. (Yet again, no, you can not have sex with me.) I decided the retching stomach pain might be worth taking a trip to the clinic for, so I hauled my ass in.

First of all, when I was filling out my medical history, there was an empty space for hobbies and I had a personal identity crisis when I couldn't think of anything to put. Although legitimate, "assing around" just never seems like an appropriate answer. Once in the room, the nurse went over my medical history with me. "So are you taking any other medication besides what you listed?" Nope. "...No birth control?" I had conflicting emotions about this question. Part of me wanted to slap him on the back and say, "Well bless your heart for thinking I need it!" while the other was sort of offended. Because Lord knows I alter my body chemistry enough, if I don't want to add anything else to it, that's my prerogative. And shit, maybe I'm a raging Catholic! What does he know? I figured he thinks I either look super: a.) attractive and therefore obviously sexually active; b.) slutty-slutty-two-by-four-can't-get-through-the-condom-door; or c.) Jewish. I made the executive decision to chose A. I take my wins where I can get 'em.

After a little pokin' and prodding by the doctor, she decided that I probably have an ulcer and therefore needed to run some tests and take a blood sample. Which was cool with me. When I had mono I got blood taken pretty much every week so I'm used to it by now. BUT OH NO! It's never that easy, is it? We had old nurse OrthoTriJackass at the helm. And of course he couldn't find my vein with both hands and a map. Seriously, I had weekly blood tests for a month and not once could the tech not find the vein in my arm. OrthoTriJackass, however, could not get over my petite little veins. He told me he was super sorry, but he was going to have to draw my blood from the inside of my wrist, which he totally doesn't like to do because it's painful but geez you must be a Vampire because where are those slutty little veins of yours?! My initial reaction was to ask him to look harder. I mean seriously, if it's that painful, maybe just slap my arm a few more times or tighten the band? Borrow my reading glasses? Phone a friend? Something? Anything? In the end I decided to keep my mouth shut because I figured getting sassy with the person about to stab me with a sharp object was probably not the best idea. He jabbed the needle into my wrist and applied pressure directly on the vein to help move the blood flow along (blood flows so slowly out of your wrist versus your arm, don't you know! LOLZ!) As this went down, I turned the other way and grabbed my scarf with my free hand to relive some tension. Not dramatically or anything. It was casual. Elegant. Jazzy. However, sensing this was not a pleasant experience for me, the nurse tried to make conversation. Which I can appreciate, I really can. However, he chose to lead with: "So Meghan, are you spiritual?" Great. I have a needle sticking out of my wrist and a small Indian man milking blood out of it. Let's bring the Lord in. This can only end well. "Uh...I don't know. Not really, I guess?" "Well it's just I noticed you're wearing a turquoise necklace. They say certain stones relate to the stars and the energy of the heavens." I don't mean to sound like a heinous bitch, but I had zero patience for this conversation. At that moment, I couldn't think of anything else in the world that I wanted to talk about less. What stone relates to not shitting your brains out on New Year's Eve, sir? Because that's the stone I'd like to talk about, and that stone only.

Finally the ordeal was over, the doctor came back in and told me her verdict: She was pretty sure I have an ulcer but some pills and lifestyle changes would take care of it. "What kind of lifestyle changes?" I asked. "Well you're going to have stop the alcohol and caffeine." My response?

LOL!!!1

I looked at her and with a completely straight face said, "Doctor, those are the two main staples of my diet." "...............Well, change your diet," she said with only a hint of horror and judgement in her eyes.

After I crossed-my-heart-and-hoped-to-die that I'd cut down on the alcohol and caffeine and dancin' with the boys and readin' the big city books, I left and immediately called my mom. "MOM!" I shamelessly whined, "I JUST HAD AN OWIE EXPERIENCE!" My mom's breath caught in her throat and she blurted out, "OH MEGHAN. PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE NOT PREGNANT." Ok. First of all, I don't know if I'd describe finding out that I'm pregnant and possibly aborting a child to my mom as an "Owie Experience." Secondly, why does everyone think I'm gettin' some?! Because I will be the first to tell you; I'm not. And again, I guess I'm flattered by the assumption, but in the end it only reminds me that the only person sharing my bed is my laptop and occasionally Evie. "No Mom. I'm not pregnant. Only people who have sex get pregnant." "OH. GOOD. Well, sorry for you. BUT GOOD."

After assuring my mom that she wasn't going to be a Bube in nine months, I went to CVS to drop off my prescription. Unfortunately for me and my stomach, my rickety health insurance plan doesn't cover the medicine I need, so I spent the next 45 minutes passing love notes between my doctor, my insurance company and the surly CVS pharmacist. After being put on hold by my doctor for 20 minutes only to be disconnected (for the second time,) I decided fuck this noise, bought a pack of tums and went to meet Alex for dinner. As I followed Alex up the stairs to his apartment he told me I had to try a new drink he had made. "Eeeesh...I don't know. My doctor told me I should lay off alcohol and caffeine for a while." Alex's reaction:

LOL!!!1

"THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I SAID!" Again, these are the days of our lives...

So, despite my stomach still being in knots and still feeling super "out of it," I finally put back on my big girl pants and went back to work yesterday. To cheer myself up, however, I brought in the Antwerp flag mouse pad my sister got me for Chrismukkah. "This way when you're at work and you want to kill yourself, just look down and think about running away to Antwerp!" she told me. (Most thoughtful gift ever, right??) About an hour after I got to work, Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker came in, walked passed my desk, pointed to my mouse pad and with the fear of god in his eyes asked, "Is that a gay pride flag?!"



(Not:)



Sigh. "No Russell. It's Antwerp's province flag." Russell gave out a hearty laugh, shook his head and walked away muttering something, the only word of which I caught being, "shoo." I looked down at my accidentally suicide-y wrist wresting on the Antwerp flag and thought to myself, "Yep. I'm back."

A few things I'd like to address:

1.) It's New Year's Eve. Kill me. I don't really know what to say about New Year's Eve that I didn't say last year. I hate it. It stresses me out. I wish it didn't exist. Simultaneously, I find my own level New Year's Scroogery to be irritating, but can't make it stop. Seriously, I'm irritating myself right now. As I type this. Each sentence is more irritating than the last. My ideal New Year's Eve involves taking a shit ton of Ambien, sleeping from the night of the 30th to the morning of the 1st and pretending like New Year's never even happened. And I'm not saying that for giggles; I feel like I could actually pull that off. Then Heath Ledger had to go and forget how many sleeping pills he took and ruin it for the rest of us. GAWD. Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say in my own special Meg way is: Happy New Year's!

2.) I've gotten a lot of emails asking me if I'll be re-capping The Real World: DC and I'd like to take this time to answer those questions: No. No, I will not be. While I'm honored you thought of me for your recapping needs, I just can't make myself watch that trash. Which is saying a lot because watching trash is sort of my shtick. I know I should care about this season because it takes place in my 'hood and I've got mad DC pride and blah blah blah, but honestly, The Real World could take place in Edward Norton's pants and I would still rather poke my eyes out with a blunt object than watch. There's nothing appealing to me about watching a bunch of whiny 20-year-olds walk around DC acting super impressed with themselves. Because I did that already. It was called: I went to American University. So, thanks but no thanks and sorry to disappoint. (Man, I really shouldn't blog on New Year's Eve. I'm being a fucking asshole today more of a fucking asshole than usual today.)

3.) Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome is currently on AMC.

4.) We don't need another hero.

5.) Soooo, the newest episode of Jersey Shore (a program I can get behind) is on tonight at 10 o'clock. Which is awkward. Because at 10 o'clock tonight I plan on being three distinctly different kinds of fucked up in a pile of Andre, tears, self-induced vomit and fake eyelashes somewhere in the greater Washington, DC area. (Awkward...) I also don't have DVR. (Double awkward...) And I don't plan on blogging Friday in anticipation of being fiercely hungover. (We've reached Zoinks! level.) BUT! God willing, MTV will probably show tonight's episode 9,000 times over the weekend, so perhaps I can get a recap up for Monday? I make no promises. Wait...full episodes are online. Ok, I make promises. If you are planning on catching tonight's all-new episode, I recommend you play along with 2b1b reader, John "The Business" Hubbard's Ultimate Jersey Shore Drinking Game! I'm so jealous I didn't write this; it's just that good. Have a wonderful New Year's Eve, thank you so much for reading and as always, we'll see you back here Monday morning! Buh-bye!

The Ultimate Jersey Shore Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink When:
- Someone says "juicehead"
- Pauly is drying his hair
- Snookers alienates herself from the housemates
- You can see more than 3/4's of J-Woww's boobs
- Vinny openly mocks someone else in the house
- A Guido says "honestly bro" or "pound it out"
- Angelina cockblocks someone
- For every person in the hot tub
- Someone uses the word "Guidette"
- Angelina acts like simple retail tasks are really, really hard
- Someone talks about hair gel or tanning
- A muscular dude drinks a shockingly feminine drink
- Mike talks about The Situation
- There's something blatantly sexist
- Someone says either "Jersey" or "Shore"
- Sammi "Sweetheart" refers to herself as Sammi "Sweetheart"
- Anytime someone feels betrayed
- There's a guy with his shirt off
- There's a can of light beer in view
- The Situation sells a t-shirt or pair of hot pants
- Someone responds to someone else's comment with the exact same or coequal comment, eg:
J-Woww: "You don't understand how bad I want you."
Pauly: "You don't understand how bad I want you."

My Buddy, My Buddy, My Buddy and Me!

I can’t believe New Year’s Eve is barreling down upon us already. So much has happened in 2009, it’s hard for me to put it into words.

And I don’t plan to. Simple as that. You all know what happened in 2009. I’m 97% sure you were also there. So what can I do for you to close out your 2009 since I’m not humorously wrapping up the year? Probably nothing. New Years, like Halloween, is one of those holidays with a disproportionate fun to planning ratio. [Editor's Note: I (Meg) could not disagree with this statement more if I were being paid to. The traumatic heinousness that is New Year's Eve has absolutely nothing to do with the majesty of Halloween. Chris has meth psychosis. That is all.] It’s like the more work you put into planning your night, the less fun you’re going to have. In short, we should all stay home with our cats, read a book, maybe play some Sudoku, and drink tea to celebrate. But you and I both know that’s not going to happen.

As is tradition for me, I plan to black out around 11:59, just seconds before the ball drops. Then pretend to have known where I was when Baby New Year came kicking and screaming into our lives (answer: at the bar getting drink number 972 billion of the night, drunk texting the world some illegible variation of “Happy New Year”). The best part of this tradition is definitely the morning after because the calibre of my misadventures increases significantly on New Years Eve. New Year’s Day is like a scavenger hunt, where I spend all day going from one person to the next finding clues as to what I did the night before. I like to think of it as Supermarket Sweep, except instead of finding riddles about Philadelphia cream cheese in the bread aisle, I’m finding fragments of my shame in the gutters of New York City.

One particularly poignant New Years Eve was spent with our dear Meg McBlogger. To ring in 2008, we met up with Meg’s friend at a bar on the Upper West Side. The price was right and it was a solid plan, so I was 100% down. Cut to NYE circa 10:30, when we trek out from the depths of Brooklyn, to what ends up being borderline Harlem. No worries though because we both were looking good, feeling good, ready to close this year out with style.

Well. Ladies and gentlemen, I was a wittle hasty with my drink, and my memory from this night abruptly ends approximately after saying hello to Meg’s friend. That does not, however, mean that my night ended. Noooooo, far from it. I have this irritating (or amazing) ability to function LONG after my brain shuts down. I only found out about what I did the next day, after waking up on top of my covers in my clothes from the night before.

What I found out is this: I proceeded to THOROUGHLY liquor myself up as the night wore on, which led me to make out with everyone in the bar when the ball dropped. When that party winded down, Meg, her friend, and I decided to hit up a party in Brooklyn. As soon as I exited the cab, I promptly vomited all over the entire borough. Meg, being the saint that she is, realized my level of intoxication, and attempted to flag a cab down to take us home. Being that we lived just north of Satan’s asshole, no cab would take us, until Meg showed a little leg and a lot of chest to some gypsy cab driver. Unfortunately for her, I turned into what she calls “Legs”, meaning my drunk legs kicked in, and I had ambled away somewhere. That somewhere happened to be passed out standing up leaning against the corner between two buildings. Safe. After much cajoling, convincing me a brick wall is not a good sleeping surface, we get into the cab and home safely. SCENE. For me, the retelling of this story is infinitely more fun than actually experiencing it. I’m sure my drunk mind was just picturing a monkey in a top hat riding a unicycle all night.

So what am I trying to get across with this story? Obviously I’m not trying to lead by example. If that were the case, we’d have a situation on our hands. The point is to try and have fun on the night of New Year’s, and you can’t do that when you’re blackout drunk. What if you meet the most amazing guy/girl and have the best sex, but you don’t remember it when you wake up because after you were finished, you wandered away?

This is why I propose the New Year’s Eve buddy system. It’s like a middle school field trip, but with less learning, more adult beverages, and equal amounts of awkward. Naturally, unless you are a lone wolf, you’ll be going out on the town with at least one friend on NYE. Great, now you have your buddy. And what you and your buddy are going to do is, well, everything together. You should be able to scream “BUDDY CHECK!” at any point during the night and get some sort of response from your buddy. A head nod, a wave, the middle finger. Any reaction will suffice. Another beer? BUDDY CHECK! If you’re buddy acknowledges you, then you’re good to go. It’s flawless.

This can also work to prevent some terrible life choices from being made. If you see your friend typing furiously on his/her cell phone all night, you can yell BUDDY CHECK and cockblock that booty text message to the ex at 1 AM. See your friend heading out the door with a fuggo? BUDDY CHECK and you make some excuse to nip that prescription for Valtrex in the bud.

Let’s say you do happen to meet that dream guy/girl and you want to have that amazing sex that you won’t remember. You and your buddy call your final check so you can talk it out. If your buddy approves (after all, two pairs of beer goggles are better than one, right?) then off you go into the wild, wild world.

It’s a win-win situation to me. I know that I would still be asleep in an alleyway in Brooklyn if it weren’t for Meg. Without a buddy, that could be you. And we wouldn’t want you to start out the New Year in a ditch.

In conclusion, I hope that each and every one of you has a great New Year and you all get laid and get drunk and be merry and all your wildest dreams come true. Thanks for reading and I love you all and I’ll see you in 2010!

Why I hate New Year's Eve

God damnit I hate New Year's Eve. I look forward to New Year's Eve about as much as I look forward to Flag Day. Except that's not completely true because this past Flag Day I went to a really sick indie radio party on the Lower East Side and met a hot guy who put himself in my phone as "Ron Big Wang" and then went and rode a mechanical bull at a bar uptown. New Year's Eve doesn't have shit on Flag Day.

Logistically speaking, New Year's Eve should be my favorite holiday. If there's anything I love more than my friends, it's getting drunk and rowdy with my friends. And if there's anything I could possibly love even more than that, it's making out with total strangers. When you combine these factors together, you'd think it would create the perfect storm of holiday fun. But no. A couple of days before New Year's Eve I get the same anxious feeling I get a couple of days before my yearly pelvic exam at the gyno's. And frankly I would prefer to get the pelvic exam because then at least I know I'm gettin' some out of it.

I really should want to go out and celebrate this New Year's Eve. Thankfully, things are finally looking up for me: I'm moving out of my parent's house in the 'burbs and into Becca's old studio in Dupont next weekend, I got a great bartending job down the street from my apartment and I've been hired to blog for a fashion website (although the thought of writing about things other than Kashi Go Lean Cereal, The Slanket and one night stands is slightly intimidating.) I really do have the most amazing friends in the word and I should be with them, drunk off my ass with my boobs hiked up in a dress I can't afford when I ring in the New Year.

Instead all I want to do is host my own I'm A Big Fat Loser Party '08 and invite the following exclusive guests:
1.) My Mom
2.) My Dad
3.) Their cat
4.) Half a pound of steamed shrimp

So why the attitude? Honestly, I just can't handle the pressure of New Year's Eve. Although my cover letter says differently, I do not work well under pressure at all. In stressful situations I have the composure of a fat person water skiing. I'm like a chicken with it's head cut off; I just run around freaking out until I lose steam and fall over. And then twitch for a while.

There are multiple layers of pressure to New Year's Eve that I can't handle. There's the initial pressure of finding something to do so you can answer people when they inevitably ask you what your big plans are. Don't feel guilty. I ask people too. I'm part of the problem and in no way the solution. After New Year's you then have to deal with people asking what you did for New Years. And you better be ready with a good answer, my friend.

Once you've figure out something to do, there's the age-old question of who you're going go kiss at midnight. Whoever originated the superstition that if you don't hook up on New Year's you're sexually cursed for the rest of the year is a real asshole. How dare you put that burden on me?! Being a highly superstitious individual, every year I put an unreasonable amount of stress on myself to find someone to make out with. This is difficult because if you get to a party at about 10pm, that only leaves you with two hours to find someone to kiss at midnight. Sadly, the first two hours of a party are usually the most sober, so your odds of making out when the ball drops are pretty slim unless your real friendly. The rest of the party is then spent hunting for someone to hook up with to avoid being cursed for an excruciating 12 months. But it's a jungle out there; every other single girl at the party is hunting her own prey for the evening and my friends are inconveniently attractive. This makes the hunt more intense and challenging. And god I hate a challenge. New Year's Eve would be so much more bearable if I had a boyfriend, which turns New Year's into another holiday designed for people in a relationship. And nuts to that.

There has only been one New Year's Eve when I had someone to kiss when the ball dropped, but that didn't so much go as I had planned. I had been talking to a guy (not even talking to, maybe chatting with) for a bit, and when I saw him over Thanksgiving Break he said he had made plans for a fancy schmancy New Year's Eve so I should get my gown ready. I was psyched. Finally, a stress-free New Year's Eve (and in formal wear no less!) About a week before New Year;s I was a bit perplexed why he hadn't called me (or returned any of my many couple of calls) to confirm our plans. A few days before New Year's I found out from a friend that he secretly had a girlfriend at school who came down to surprise him for Christmas and New Year's, which meant I was out on my ass for the big night. That night when the ball dropped, I realized what an idiot I had been for trusting him and I could feel my thumb twitching, ready to text various Ghosts of Hook-Ups Past. In an effort to keep some dignity that New Year's, I grabbed a bottle of Andre from the kitchen and quietly slipped out of the party, ready to bench myself for the evening. Half a bottle of Andre and a line of Klonopin later, I was no longer a danger to myself. For at least 12 more hours.

...God I hate new Year's Eve.

After a firm talkin' to by Anna, Jill and Talia tonight, I realized I need to stop acting like a superstitious curmudgeon and allow myself to have fun this year. But old habits die hard and I can't stop being so unreasonably superstitious. Therefore, if I even remotely know you and will be seeing you this New Year's Eve, I will be making out with you. Whether you like it or not. I might not even say hello. I might just walk up, stick my tongue down your throat, slap you on the ass, say "good game" and walk on. Gender is a non-issue. I've got 12 months to cover and it's a recession. Game on bitches.


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