There's not anyone to kiss this year.
More about this.
I don't know what scares me more, waking up on January 1, 2003, or not ever waking up again.
I am by no means ungrateful for my life, though I take it for granted daily. But, man. I'm fucking scared. I spend all night on the 31st trying to squeeze as much life into that night as possible. I wake up thinking, Is that all? Is that FUCKING IT?!? IS IT? THAT'S ALL I CAN DO?!? JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST! WHY?
So, Yippie! I can drink! Yippie! I can have sex in cars! Yippie! I can go home with strange men! Yippie! I can wake up with a headache the size of Texas!
I have to. Have to, have to, have to. It could be my last night on Earth breathing. Tell me it's not, I will not believe you.
I'm looking for 1999 in every year since. Did you see San Francisco? Did you? Every window was borded up, police every where, Market Street was blocked. I saw chalk outlines for the first time. My mom flipped out that I left my friends house, I got lit, dumped my friends at the curb outside of Backflip, took off.
The anticipation tasted like rum and coke, and kissing someone who has just swallowed Sierra Nevada Pale. It felt like cold leather on the back of your thighs, teeth chattering, guilt. It looked like my version of hell, a window of an unfamiliar car in the dark, headlights flashing over redwoods.
The night I had been looking forward to since 14, when I figured out what it was about, brought down to fucking in a car on the side of the road.
Waking up, thinking the same things I've thought every morning since. Throw away your friends for love. Bad decision, Carie. Bad. Fucked it up again. And again. And again.
I'm not fucking in a car this year. I'm not running away from my only friend. I'm pretty sure this year is going to taste like rum and coke, look like Kristin's TV, and feel like her carpet on my hands. It's going to sound like us laughing. Hopefully.