the satisfaction of having one’s curmudgeonly, nigh-principled opposition to “going out” for new year’s eve buttressed not only by achieving nothing in the process, but still further, somehow losing one’s bank card, metro pass, and driver’s license (thanks,Ontario, btw, for your draconian booze laws that render even a borderline thirty-something uncertain of their goddamn god-given right to acquire drink without being 3rd-7th degrees for the privilege), is, well… duh. fuck it, right?
pyrrhic victory, etc.
i cannot heap effusive enough praise upon the folk, the meal, the setting and the jams that constituted the former portion, and let’s just say that whatever “I Told You So”s i might muster could only be flung against the indifferent muck-wall of my already insensate Bad Attitude. like someone (some genius, probably with a useful degree) devised a catherine wheel that, while rotating, just spits its fire inward, the cardboard cylinder and lack of oxygen doing as good a job as any social context to entomb such conflagration to an ineffectual, pathetically restricted and banal darkness.
well, there’s always hope for the inevitable hangover, i suppose.
2011 or bust.