01.01.12.
Three friends, strewn about in a car. Feet on the dashboard, laying in the back, seats reclined. Windows rolled up, moonroof open, stars mixing with our smoke. We talked. Talked until our voices grew hoarse, until our words were mean and hate-ridden. Talked until we couldn’t handle what was coming out anymore. Until we couldn’t handle ourselves anymore. Sure, there was alcohol involved, but that’s beside the point; the point is, it was a thousand times better than your booze-filled party, it was more meaningful than that promised New Year’s kiss. Because we missed the drop, we look over, in the midst of our self-realization, and see that it’s been past midnight for fifty-three minutes. It didn’t matter. This year’ll be the same as the last, and I can only hope to end it the same way. To lose my voice and sleep in the front of an old school Ford Sedan, sneaking home at six in the morning, feeling miserable about the existence of the world.
So, hello, 2012. We’ll get through this year, even if it kills us—or at least, we’ll fight back like hell.
