New Year’s Eve, Part 3

Sometime during the second or third episode of How I Met Your Mother, those left in the recliners look up and hear the banging of a bed. Nobody reacts. Somebody was getting some this night and it was the ginger. Good for him. In my mind, though, I fell from strength. I had several thoughts: fuck him. Whore. I deserve some fun. Fuck this. I was angry. I hated this. But, soon it passed. Weakness, gone.

People began to pass out, then wake up, change the episode, and fall back asleep. The thumping stopped and soon the feminist came down, sullen look on her face. Walking slowly. She slides on to the couch with a young looking, large guy, who takes her into his arms. She begins to babble.

“I’m not angry,” she went on. The poor soul held her tighter, her legs still twitching.

Whispers. More whispers. Then…

“I’m not possessive, but I’m a little angry,”

“That’s because you’re territorial,” I said, rolling my head back. It felt heavy.

“I’m not territorial,” she spat.

“Yes, you are, its natural,” I started to laugh. Bless the dark arts I wasn’t the poor boy next to her, holding a freshly fucked body pining for the bed she just came from.

I heard a scoff as my eyes closed and then silence except for the television and its laugh track. She mumbles more. I, in fits of waking up between dreams, look to the lowly midnight couple.

When I awoke in the morning, the morning with a sun and sky and light that is, I looked down upon the sweet cuddle lovers. His shirt off. Her face alight with the smug satisfaction of male attention. I was still drunk enough to laugh again, then just lay there doing my damnedest not to get up.

On the way home, my sister driving due to my hangover, she mentioned that the chubby and the feminist were fuck buddies of the ginger. It made all sense now. Why they vanished on a whim, together. Why the ginger had one after the other. Smart man, to bring fuck buddies to a New Year’s Eve party. And it made the poor boy’s snuggle time with the whore feminist all that more pathetic. She’d fucked him before. She came down, knowing who was next, and in her drunken connection with her emotions, threw herself on the willing chump. Horrid.

It put a small fire in me. Something got a little steelier after witnessing such blatant acts of disrespect by a woman. Not something idealized. Something attached by rivets and made armor. After the full recovery the next day, my pack of smokes not yet finished, I thought on the feelings and smiled. I felt superior, vastly superior. I felt as if a soldier of the wars between the sexes. I landed my blows, I laughed in the face of female logic and refused, in the end, to placate the whims of their cunts.

It was a good New Year’s.

New Year’s Eve, Part 2

After talking to Raven Hair, I made my way down to the basement to say hello to my sister’s boyfriend and get into the beer pong that was loudly calling my name. There I met the guy who would be the life and, for a moment, half the bane, of my party night. Ginger, tall, wide, immediately he had the aura of a good, happy guy. Down at the game was a chubby girl with an extreme cute face (ginger’s sister), a skinny, short haired chick wearing a wife beater and another girl who I quickly pegged as attached to one of the pong players. With a glance, I labeled the skinny bitch as a feminist and I was proven right shortly after. Her motions, her manly tone of speech and gruff demeanor. As I drank on, she became fuckable, barely.

My sister came down for a few minutes, still tanked, but left. I talked to the ginger and the other girls that hung down. Made jokes, laughed, drank more, and finally got my turn at beer pong. Teamed with the ginger, I was up against some guy and the blonde chick I mentioned in Part 1. I hadn’t played since my trip back from Riverside, but it came back quickly. Sank several, but we started falling behind. Some rimming. Many close calls. Our opponents were closing in on victory. Then, pure skill on my part and of my teammate, we sank two bouncers. 4 beers they had to down. It was a Tebow miracle. They lost their momentum and, at our final cup, they were equally on the edge. Several minutes passed, then PLOP! Celebration. We won!

A call came from the upper floor. It was almost time for the countdown. We all made it up and the men were handed a small glass of 12-year old scotch. I was still nursing a second rum and coke. I put it down and all 15-20 people gathered together and rang in the new year. I downed my scotch and suddenly I couldn’t drink anymore. It was amazing, smooth, but went down in a way that I looked at my soda and cheap rum and just put it aside. I’m done.

Most of us made it outside to smoke a authentic Cuban cigar, adding to the celebratory atmosphere. A large circle formed and it was passed around. Fuck, did it taste great, even with the compound effect of alcohol. Someone said to use the garden to spit, I didn’t hear the instruction. When I spit, the feminist cunt came over and tapped me in the balls with her foot, telling me that I broke the rules. I felt it. It must have been the easy-go atmosphere, the cigar and the drink, ’cause I would of decked the bitch hard. Also, I was surrounded by geeks, statistical white knights, who would of crushed me for the Horde or Alliance or whatever. I wanted to enjoy myself. I wanted to enjoy that cigar. I wanted to have a good time. Fuck you, bitch. I spit behind me and continued with the sing-along of Queen songs the group was belting out. The next pass around, still slightly livid, I did spit in the garden, which apparently ired her because not long after, as I was the lone smoker finishing off both a cig and a cigar, she and the fat blonde began the obligatory drunk girl make out. I just stood and enjoyed my smoking, was soon accused of being creepy and they took it outside the patio and behind the fence. The fuck, bitch?

After that, the next events became a blur of short memories. Watching some weird music and anime mashup. A few words with Raven Hair before she took off. Talking to ginger’s sister. We had a common heritage, being both California kids. Finding the chubby blonde on the couch and getting some close time (I was drunk and horny, what?). I was basically fingering her through her jeans with another guy’s lap supporting her head, but this chick was so plastered there was no reaction. And, then, feminist came around. I ended spouting a horribly cheesy line when the lamenting of looks started. It was a true line, though, “When I got in the car, I thought you were cute.” Because I couldn’t see your face or body, I thought right after. The two took off and I found a free recliner, which would be my bed as the anime turned into Wanye’s World and How I Met Your Mother. I thought the night would end on a serene bust. Happy, still horny and pissed, but happy. But, even thought I wouldn’t score that night, I’d witness some of the worst fucking behavior by grown men I had ever seen since I started learning game.

New Year’s Eve, Part 1

I left the house at 8:30pm. Burlington is about a 45 minute drive and the traffic was clear from the border all the way into Toronto. Strange. I expected something, but I guess the cold and the way people prepare for this arbitrary night of festivities allows those with plans further away an easy ride. I quickly stopped in at the Big Bee convenience store, picking up a couple bags of chips, smokes and lighter. The patch had been working, but a night a party is a night of enjoying tobacco.

I lit up and hit the QEW. I tired to blast Alexisonfire, but it wasn’t very loud, even at maximum volume. Fucking iTunes. I bought it off the store, straight download. I kept it playing anyway. Ten minutes in, cigarette finished, a melancholy washed over me. I remembered the last New Year’s Eve. I worked, I think. I couldn’t remember. I remembered the one before that. Hanging with close friends, drinking, playing Apples to Apples, general drunkenness and an 3am IHOP breakfast to soak up the alcohol. A good night. It may have been the hunger feeling, I’d been staying strict paleo all day and my body hadn’t fully adjusted. It may have been the cold or even the smoke, but I couldn’t shake it. All the way up, kilometer by kilometer, I felt like turning around and burying myself in my room. Useless and happy to be that way.

I arrived at Aldershot Station, one of the two choices given to me by my sister for where to be picked up. The party was to be big enough that parking would be non-existent, so her boyfriend cleverly chose the regional train stations as his rally points. I parked near the entrance and texted him my location. Quickly, he responded with what car would pick me up. I lit up my third smoke of the night, waiting in my idling vehicle, keeping warm. I quickly finished it. Time seemed to go like molasses in winter. I got out of the car and lit up again. Waiting. Lit up again. Watching every car go by and not seeing my ride. Fuck, it was cold. -7C. Cold for me, anyway. Years of the Southwest spoiled me. Finally, the gray pickup arrived and I got in the back seat.

The driver was a large guy with a boyish face. It fit the group of gamers and fellow travelers that my sister and her boyfriend run with. In the passenger seat was a blonde with a decent voice. We quickly all started talking. Joking about seeing my sister drunk. Ideas about hitting up the host for stripper money was seriously considered. I quickly began to get into game mode. The blonde was chipper and receptive. This night will take off, I thought to myself. We arrived and we all got out. I changed my mind. She was chubby, and not in the cute way. Her face was not cute nor did the weight put anything of value on her body. Even skinny, I doubt she would have been worthy of my dark magic. I didn’t flinch or change my flow. Good night, I told myself. No matter what.

As soon as we walked in, my sister was drunk as fuck, bellowing “That’s my brother!” Pointing and waving her arms. The entire room looked over and I waved. I need a drink, I thought and tossed down the chips on a nearby table. The selection of alcohol was massive. A six foot long table, six feet high with cubbyholes, completely covered in everything from vodka to rum to whiskey and rye. I took my time, finally just going for a basic rum and coke. I filled the cup over a third with rum, then found a can and topped it off. My sister found me and gasped, “That’s a lot of alcohol.” I replied with a dead “Yup.”

At the dining table was a skinny, fair skined, raven haired cutie. I walked over and struck up a conversation, sister in tow. She, again, mentioned that I was her brother. She smiled a lot. Quickly, the alcohol kicked in. Empty stomach. This may be a good night, I thought.