Seventeen Tracks And I'm Tired Of This GameBeing raised in a not particularly religious family, Christmas was never that big of a deal for me. Don't get me wrong--presents are nice and I manage to spend Christmas day with family and/or friends. But if I had to spend Christmas Day alone, no biggie. For some reason though, the day that really freaks me out, the day (or to be more accurate, the night) that I absolutely cannot spend alone is New Years' Eve.
I don't know why this is. Maybe it's the need to divert my attention from the fact that another year has ended and that I still haven't found the one who has made me stop looking (or for this year, that I found the one but she needed to "explore" after I helped her get out a dead-end relationship). Maybe it's all the media images of Times Square that has foisted this image of crowds and merriment that has imprinted on my weak mind. Maybe I'm just a needy bugfuck prick.
In any event, except for the last two years, I've been able to find parties to go to. I manage to pass the New Year without being too maudlin or weepy. However, it seems like my group of friends are beginning to treat New Years' Eve just like any other day. One friend is chillin' by his lonesome at home. Another friend told me that, prior to getting married, he spent a couple of New Years' Eve by himself. Is it that after turning 30, we're just winding down? Is is that a West Coast New Years' Eve is a bit of a let down after seeing the ball drop in Times Square at 9pm local time?
Anyway, I'm not about to bust the balls of my friends who have invited me to hang at their pad this year--especially considering is the alternative is drinking at home with nothing to keep me company other than thoughts of Her in Las Vegas having fun. Those type of thoughts without adult supervision could lead baby getting into the pills, and having my stomach pumped isn't an attractive option.
There's a little annoying spark of something that purports to be the voice of reason in my head. It says, "Well Marty, if you'd rather go out, then why don't you? Go out to a club, open your wounded heart to all the love flowing within, become a he-slut and hit on anything without an adam's apple! Open your inner sexy beast and be a fuck machine for tonight, forever and always!"
Sounds reasonable, donnit'? Argue against this voice, and I sound like some lameass FOB trying to justify being a lameass. But you know what? Fuck it. My heart still feels like a sucking chest wound. You can't run a marathon the day after being shot in the leg the day before. You can't be a sexy beast with rabies. So maybe I need to be a lamess. And maybe that voice of reason is just morphine.