Our New Years Eve party was commissioned at around 2:30 p.m. that afternoon. We'd had two parties in December already and weren't dying to have another, but for some reason this NYE was a party desert. There was simply nothing out there. It kept coming up in conversation the days prior. What are you doing? I don't know -- nothing. What about you? I haven't heard of anything either. Man.
The 31st arrived and still nobody had heard of anything. Surely something will materialize, we all thought. Surely this impasse will be broken. Surely we won't go over the cliff. A deal was reached only when my roommate and I reluctantly cobbled together an eleventh hour party. (There's a reason we are known around town as the Joe Biden and Mitch McConnell of LR.) It was a small affair. Maybe two dozen people, most of whom filtered in after midnight. Some teenage girls had to be kicked out. An intoxicated middle-aged stranger brought us a baking dish full of shrimp scampi and was then himself kicked out for acting foolish. I drank several pint glasses of champagne and don't remember much of the night after. I danced. I played foosball. I kissed a man on the mouth. I grabbed my shovel and dug a fairly large hole in the backyard, for reasons unknown to myself and every other creature on this earth.
I woke up with what feels like a resurgence of strep throat and I didn't leave the house all day. Who knows what will happen tomorrow.
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