This year is decided: I say fuck New Year’s Eve

December 14, 2020

I hate many things in life.

Especially on New Year’s Eve, it’s like this and I don’t want to change my mind.

I have long pretended that I love the New Year

New Year’s Eve kind of reminds me of that girl everyone thinks is great in high school. You try to sympathize with her by trying to find qualities in her, and you realize she’s the biggest lip-pierced asshole (I was in high school in the early 2000s, that explains it) the Earth has brought.

So, stop forcing and wish your other friends would notice the same but don’t understand.

So you shut up waiting for your friends to open their eyes but that day never comes. Then pretend that you like yourself without conviction, because you’re a teenager and it’s hard to have personality in full puberty.

Only here I’m 34, and I’m not afraid to say it anymore.

I hate you, New Years.

I can’t blame you.

And I remember when it all started. When hate was born in my fragile little heart.

A New Year’s Eve in the garbage bags

We are in 2002. It is 2 in the morning, the dishwasher who had to slam all the dishes of the 100 customers of the holiday village that my parents manage is absent subscribers

And I have both hands in the Norwegian omelette.

Do you know the Norwegian omelette? It’s a completely broken dessert/concept with ice cream, always a little melted, always a little wobbly, which the local cook served for I don’t know what reason every New Year’s Eve.

Why do I have my hands in this cake? A drunk customer has lost his wedding ring, and it is certain that she was thrown away by a careless waiter with the remains of the Scandinavian dessert.

So we had to dig. Six trash bags. From 150 litres. Before slamming dishes to 100 people. And while all my mates got tepid 8.6 burns listening to Björk or the Strokes (I told you, early 2000s obliged), I fumbled emptying the trash with my fingers for the ring, like that asshole Gollum.

I don’t know yet, but the client will find his wedding ring the next day on the edge of the sink in his room. Ah well yes. It’s funny huh?

No.

Fuck New Years.

New Year’s Eve, always a flop

Because I dedicate boundless hatred to this date of anguish.

No good memories to remember with tears in your eyes. No kiss of champagne at the top of the Empire State Building, rather failed caterpillars in a 17 square meter apartment in the far Parisian suburbs with no RER.

It’s a constant disappointment. A soufflé that doesn’t take. A kazou cover ofCalifornia hotels.

There’s that time I fell asleep with someone I didn’t know, that time M. freaked out because someone clogged his toilet with a vase of flowers (true), the TWO times it’s midnight been on the street trying to go to someone I liked them blah (they’re always the ones who throw New Year’s parties, your friends understood that if it was to get scolded at home by people you don’t know you might as well invite Pascal Praud to an aperitif) , the countless rides on the subway line that feel like no-budget zombie movies, or even the ones from last year where my father and sister snored in front of The Wizard of Oz.

I won’t talk about the one at the casino in Grasse where I lost my money while my father was doing covers for Careless whisperer on the sax, nor the one at my sister’s house – who is ten years younger than me – and where I felt like your mother at your first party.

The new year, my personal curse

Now I see it as a curse.

I can touch my nose with my tongue but impossible for me to enjoy December 31st. It’s like this. I consider this party to be the culmination of bad dates and I don’t understand people trying to get into “new year, new life” mode.

WOW folks, the future is not a William Carmimola show, we are here to suffer.

January 1 may be a new year, but the vomit on your doormat left by your “always ready for bamboche” neighbor has dried and stuck.

Well yes.

And if you’re unlucky like me, your dog may have tried to eat it.

Open your eyes, BORDEL, this is the reality of the end of the year.

Why should I dig? Why am I going to have fun on New Year’s Eve?

Where does this tacit convention come from that we should absolutely celebrate this change of year as if the best was yet to come?

At a time when it’s better not to predict anything (have you seen the pandemic? And the musical on Michel Sardou’s songs?) I say to myself, and I say to this new year:

Shut up and prove yourself.

We’ll see in July if it’s worth celebrating.

New Year’s Eve like in Peru

I’m sorry for you and I’m sorry for all the Norwegian omelette lovers who are looking forward to this day with joy.

But personally, for New Year’s Eve, my program is the one recommended to me by a beautician. In Peru, in his home country, people burn anything that reminds them of the past year’s bad vibes: cigarettes if you’ve quit smoking, your ex’s clothes, crappy books.

If you’re looking for me on December 31st, then I’ll be in the countryside creating my papier-mâché infernal figurine, which will materialize the musty previous years in a grandiloquent way. I just need to motivate Papa Normand to make a big bonfire.

He will tell me no.

ANOTHER FAILED YEAR END.

Cover photo credit: Soulful Pizza / Pexels