It is New Year’s Eve, and I sit alone in dim silence.
Outside my window, the world writhes in pagan celebration. Champagne drips like honey from the lips of weak-chinned revelry makers and low women undulate their abdomens in jubilation at the passing of another year. 2010 was, of course, a nondescript year in which the San Francisco Giants won the World Series and the film Grown Ups grossed $162 domestically. Regardless, plebians across the planet now grind their groins into lampposts in groaning ecstacy to obligingly acknowledge the new cycle in our Gregorian calendar.
Being alone on New Year’s Eve isn’t entirely a bad thing. For starters, I get to eat whatever I want (cheese) and I can leave the door open when I’m going to the bathroom. On the downside, it’s depressing to listen to the joyous shouts echoing from neighbor’s houses, no doubt filled with glistening, nubile partiers holding their arms aloft to receive an empty benediction from Carson Daly.
In the stillness of my home, I am left to count down the minutes in silence, accompanied only by my faithful knife. It is, I suppose, a celebration of a different sort. Where others imbibe warming cocktails and engage in friendly patter, I stare silently into a mirror as I wash my hands again and again. Where others throw their heads back and laugh confidently while driving drunk from the Chili’s in Eagan, I use my Belgian waffle maker as an incredibly inefficient space heater because I’m too lazy to go get the real one.
No doubt about it, being alone on New Year’s Eve is a dispiriting and dreary thing. This seems proof that I am the most unlucky, persecuted person alive today. Compared to me, that Nobel Peace Prize winner from China looks like Justin Bieber in a middle school cafeteria.
Oh well, at least I have my reasoned logic to help keep perspective.