NYE in NYC
by Modern Miss Manners
You have three options.
1) Leave the city. Don’t look back. Hide in a woodland cabin with all of your friends. Get drunk, cook elaborate meals, make snow angels, dance around the living room, sleep in, whatever. It’s gonna be great. Your parents will be proud. (This option is most appealing to those already in cozy-ass relationships and therefore down for an NYE sock party. Don’t let them talk you into running away with them if you’ll be sad that there aren’t any equally-drunk strangers’ faces to lick at midnight. You’ll be a pouty mess and ruin the vibes.)
2) Lock yourself and all of your friends (and friends of friends and crushes and whoever else you can drum up) into someone’s apartment and don’t leave for any reason that doesn’t involve cigarette breaks or PDA. Nothing else is romantic enough to warrant stepping out into that madness before approximately 6am January 1st.
3) Go full-on douche. Buy too-expensive tickets to an all-night affair at a hotel or a shitty warehouse, blow even more cash on a fancy dress or suit you just know you’ll ruin (when else can one pull off looking classy as fuck during a shitty warehouse rave?), do all the drugs, drink all the drinks, kiss everyone, make new friends, cry in a corner, get it together, kiss everyone else, stumble home well after dawn… then recover alone in your bed with nothing but pizza and Gatorade for the next 48 hours. If you haven’t done this at least once, you’re just fucking everything up.
To be clear, none of these options include hanging in your apartment alone with three bottles of wine and a fully charged iPhone. Do you hear me? Goddammit. Go make out with some strangers, or your friends, or whoever. It’s good luck for the new year. Now get the fuck outside before I call your mother.
2014 or bust.