I don’t (normally) like to go out on New Years Eve. When I was (much) younger I was the designated driver for the evening, carting around all my drunk friends to parties and it was MY fucking car that received a hit-n-run massive dent in the door—and not one single ‘friend’ offered to pony up some cash for the fix. Fuckers.

Ever since then I have preferred to buy some pizza and junk food and pop in the the familiar movies while I clean and organize my house. By 10pm I’ve pulled everything out from every cupboard and drawer and the place looks like a bomb went off but by the time the New Year rings in everything has been sorted and tidied and I begin the year fresh and with lots of stuff boxed up for the charity shop.

This year I have not one, but THREE different offers. 1) go with one sister to a friend’s place and watch the Space Needle fireworks display, 2) go with the other sister to her friend’s place and take photos of the Space Needle fireworks display, or 3) go with my friends to the bad bar and have to see him. Have to talk to him. Touch him. And leave him. Again.

I wonder if I could talk a sister into just letting me stay in and clean their house?