New Years of Irony

New Year’s resolutions are bullshit, so instead I’ll explain the irony of my new year’s eve.

I’m painting for you. I had one image in mind, and by chance it turned into another. That image soon turned into several more, as the oil paints shaped how it would turn out; one bowl and two soon-to-be old habits later I sat content staring at it, wondering why I was so involved in this love. Did you cast a spell on me?

Let’s interrupt that. I just had to get up and vomit, and I’m only on my fourth beer in two hours. Just one joint and one real cigarette after how many days? and look at me. Another point of climax for the synchronistic peak that’s been growing like a fresh-sprouting mountain in the last week. The last two weeks, maybe. What’s to say it started to peak started only a week ago, two weeks? It may not even be climaxing, here. Technically things would have to peak up until that point, and once there it could plateau or continue onwards; one never knows when events have truly reached a climax.

In that sense I could say it’s been two years. Twenty-one years.  Does it ever end?

I tried not going out on New Year’s Eve. I wanted to set an ironic precedent on the new year by not going out the one night the country parties hardest: I party every night as it is, after all, so what’s the difference in one night?

I failed. French_poet and his friend, Swede_friend, came by and pulled me from my piece and my peace. We stopped at Tommies and grabbed some chili burgers; we got to the pre-party at around 10:45. I’d imaginatively attributed the champagne to thinking I was actually in the mood, but the truth was none of us were.  The pre-party headed to the real-party. The real-party was not only horribly boring for us newcomers, but it looked even more boring for the people there with their $5 house party booze wristbands.

We said fuck this and left, French_poet cursing in two languages about how much he hates that crowd now. I told him to deal with it, meanwhile Swede_friend made fun of his French passport and began speaking English with his Swedish trying-to-be French accent as he complained how bored he was.

We were going to stop at Iguana Kelly’s, but the crowd was having too much fun. We called asian_poetess, she was at a party on Redondo and Seventh. She met us outside at the AM/PM with a Bud Light in her hand at 11:44. How do people drink that shit, asian_poetess? The party was full of lesbians and gay guys. I was excited, except that lesbians generally don’t want to talk to me, and gay guys generally all want to fuck me.

I left at 11:52 to go to Bull Bar across the street. They had their own party going on, I couldn’t join in like the depressed youngster I knew I looked like. If I only I truly were him, I’d have sat down and enjoyed a beer, completely lacking any interest in what they thought. So instead, I walked home. I was around two-thirds the distance when the town blew up. I asked myself if that really could have been less than twenty minutes as I looked at my Nokia.

I laughed as I got inside with the pint of Newcastle I’d just purchased—I’m glad the 7-11 clerks don’t give a shit about the holiday either—and smiled at my apartment. My loving, homey, wonderful home. I laughed harder when accidently spilled Tequila in my eye as it left the little Mexican gizmo too fast and dripped out the top.  I smoked a bowl.

And I smiled and smiled, then I chuckled and chuckled, and then I almost laughed and laughed. My holiday of personally-wrought irony was a failure only to succeed itself in being the most ironic in the greatest sense. The Swedes came back over with a six pack of Corona Light—yes, they make that—and we were content. Asian_poetess came over, drunk and the most emotional I’ve ever seen her (which was still not very). I made some music.

They all crashed on the couch.

I woke them up to the Quantic Soul Orchestra’s Feeling Good as loud as it went, as the water for the coffee boiled. They got up. We played piano, French_poet tried to write a poem. Swede_friend played some game on Facebook. He was always bored.

I drove them home, I went shopping. I bought paper towels and toilet paper and sponges but I couldn’t find answers anywhere. I went home and cleaned the house. I waited for spirit_girl to call me.

We had a date, me and spirit_girl. I wondered why she was actually available to hang out on New Year’s day…


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Another twenty some odd young adult who believes he sees things from a unique perspective. Here be my poetry & prose, short stories, favored school papers, rantings, and "blogs." Comment, critique, and profit.


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