I don’t remember ever not disliking New Year’s Eve. I’m not one to be forced to enjoy a particular day out of cultural custom, nevermind having to feign excitement during one second as the clock switches over into the new year. It’s always seemed especially hollow to me. Last year was awesome though. We rented a beach house in the Outer Banks (NC) and I remember being so drunk that I accidentally hit a girl in the leg with a lit bottle-rocket who I’d always had a major crush on in highschool. She got really mad, of course. Later, I remember walking along the beach with my friend John and having one of my all-time favorite vomiting sessions. It’s somehow absurdly freeing to be standing in front of the waves, under the moonlight and to just be heaving your guts out into the sand.

This year found me in Baltimore with just a couple friends. We ended up at Club Charles/Zodiac, and it was one of those nights where I wake up the next day, and I’m like “Huh, I guess I was really drunk, after all,” although it didn’t seem like it at the time.

New Year’s is also weird to me because it’s smack dab in the middle of Christmas and my birthday (which is tomorrow, motherfuckers), both of which are generally more interesting and/or bittersweet. Anyway, I finally got back last night, after having spent almost three weeks travelling up and down the mid-atlantic east coast states. My trip was phenomenally good, although it wasn’t always ha-ha fun. So much different shit happened, and I realized all kinds of different weird things along the way. I’ll try to write about some of it in dribs and drabs here, but we’ll see how far I get.