
"What are YOU doing for New Year's?" If I hear that stinking question
one more time, I swear I will take the glowing Rockin' New Year's Eve ball and shove it up Dick Clark's polypy ass. I mean, is it not enough that I have successfully endured the horrors of Thanksgiving and Christmas family hell? I have made it through this
"cheerful" season without telling off a family member, punching out the Salvation Army bell ringer (who I might add is most definitely a pawn of Satan himself), or taking out an Uzi in Rockefeller Center just to clear an easily manageable path on the damn sidewalk. And for what? Now I have to find some really cool, hip, memorable activity to ring in 1998. I have to surround myself with the people I like best, or in my case, the people I don't hate the most. There must be a champagne toast, a decent midnight kiss, noise-makers, confetti, and to make this night even more unbearable I have to think of some ridiculously PC resolution to make me a better person and share it with others on command. I can't take the freakin' pressure. Sure, I'm a fun person up for a good time, but at what cost? No matter what you end up doing on this night it is always a let down, a disappointment. Why the hell are we as a society so obsessed with the clock striking midnight on December 31st? Is it just me or can anyone else see that all of the stinking traditions were designed to mask what is truly going on this momentous occasion. . .the internal reviewing of the cold hard truth, life sucks. Be it 1997 or 1998, I still won't have enough money, my careers will still be going nowhere, my dreams will still be lurking in my unconscious mind casting a shadow the likes of Chris Farley over Kate Moss, my family will still be, well, my family, and all the other unresolved issues that haunt me will continue to do so for all eternity. There is no "clean slate" when the clock strikes midnight. You're still fucked, and don't forget it. So, if you must try to convince yourself that New Year's Eve holds some kind of magical power showering hope over your pathetic life, buy
the noisemakers, toast your champagne, hell, even sing that stupid song no one in their right mind knows the words to - Old Lan's Sign - or whatever the hell it is.
But know this: you're not fooling anyone. And please, for the love of god, have mercy on those of us who have given up hope for this holiday and don't ask us in your annoying, Disney-grin, I love life kind of way "what are you doing on New Year's Eve." On behalf of all the cynical, sarcastic, holiday-hating, there- is- nothing- to- look- forward- to- in- 1998- and- most- certainly- no- good- in- the- world population, I thank you.
At the time of this writing, Meredith Trotta had been temping for six days.
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This is a rant. But we don't call it that, because that's cliche. Instead, we call it 500 words, because it is. In fact, all of the angriest pieces in this site are exactly 500 words, stopping in mid-sentence if necessary. You can see the others, if you'd like. They sound best when read out loud, after slamming your hand in the car trunk.
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