I woke up in a closet.

Unlike Christmas, a holiday I’m typically over by the time the day comes, New Years Eve is a chance for everyone to wait in long lines at the liquor store and make enough bad decisions before midnight so that the previous year alone seems like all its debauchery could never be repeated.  Then midnight comes, everyone jubilantly kisses one another or vomits into the gutter after a celebratory shot, and time’s party attendees inevitably descend into a hang-over.  Then the resolutions: never will I ever drink an entire liter of Mr. Boston on my own again, never will I ever insist that the only sober person at the party make out with me, etc.

With two liters of Svedka on my shelf and a bottle of champagne nestled in my fridge, I’ve yet to determine what, exactly, I will be doing to ring in this new year aside from drinking.  My boyfriend is asleep on the couch as he waits for his friends from the army to give him a call about what’s going on tonight, and I’m waiting for one of my friends from home to arrive with a sleeping bag.  As has been the problem for the entirety of my drinking tenure, I am under 21 and my options are rather limited.  Two house parties are on the list of possibilities, but staying in my apartment and banging pots and pans on my stoop like I’m a senior citizen isn’t far off from a plan for the evening.