Dear New Year's Eve, You're The Worst

Dear New Year's Eve,

I know we haven't even made it to Christmas yet, but every year I go to write you this note and it's too late. Not this year, though. This year, I made sure I carved out some time to key this letter so you'll receive it before your dreaded day. 

I've been seeing a therapist for the past year (no, not because of you. Don't get cocky), and a tactic she has taught me in dealing with my anger, upset, frustration, etc. is to write a Hate Letter. It's exactly what it sounds like — you sit down and proceed to write out all the horrible things you wish you could say (without consequence) to a person or situation, then tear it up and throw it away. Surprisingly, it works. It's relieving, empowering, and one of the more cathartic coping mechanisms I've ever tried (besides spending hours taking screenshots of how unattractive an ex has gotten and sending them to my friends while finishing a bottle of red then deciding it's perfectly deserved that I binge on Taco Bell for dinner). 

Except this particular Hate Letter won't be torn up or thrown way. It'll be posted on all sorts of virtual, public platforms for any and everyone to read because that's how much I hate you, New Year's Eve. I hate you enough to talk about it openly on the Internet and implore others to partake in the hatred. 

To start, you're a fraud. A fake. A phony. You put on a big show, but rarely deliver. You're all talk. You're like a showy sports car with enough rev and shine to be noticed but, when you open the door, an ugly, small-dicked, balding man with bad gums and off brand shoes who can't unhook a bra to save his life is driving. You'll tell anyone who will listen how great you are, how much people love you, and how exciting what you bring to the table is, all the while knowing you're lying through your champagne-stained teeth. 

The truth of the matter is you're the shittiest holiday out there. You know it. I know it. Anyone with even a morsel of dignity, sophistication, and class knows it. 

New Year's Eve, YOU'RE THE WORST.

And what's sad is we keep trying to convince ourselves otherwise. Year after year, we rationalize away all the failures we've encountered with you because we want it to work. We're desperate to live up to your alleged potential. You're so talked about and planned for that we willingly forget how bad last New Year's Eve was (and the one before that and the one before that) for the smallest glimmer of hope that maybe, JUST MAYBE, this year will be different. 

But it never is. It's never different. Year after year, it's a whole lot of build up for a minimal amount of fun that goes nowhere. You're like heavy-handed, passionate foreplay that promises equally as explosive sex but falls so flat. But we keep trying. Each year, we go all out for you (and, let's face it, for that one Instagram-worthy shot). We get dolled up with the sequin dress (or, this year, perhaps a cropped jacket), the blowout, the nails, the makeup. You tell us we look hot, hand us a glass of champagne to boomerang on our Insta story, blind us with sparkles, shimmer, and shine, but before we know it, it's over. Suddenly and without warning, you're rolling over in bed to grab your phone and call us an Uber as we clumsily fight to get our form-fitting sequin dress back on before Dominic is outside.

No one has a good time with you, that is if they can even get to you since everywhere is so damn crowded. Not to mention expensive. $100 cover charges for one free drink and a plastic flute of champagne at midnight? You really like yourself, don't you? You're a twisted bastard, asking me to get dressed up and go stag to an overrated party for you that will more than likely end in tears, a headache, and no midnight kiss. You take joy in seeing me waste my time, money, and good hair for nothing and nobody, don't you? DON'T YOU?

I'm one of the lucky ones who found you out a few years ago and, ever since, have stayed as far away as possible from your toxicity. Three years ago, I stayed in and enjoyed a decadent homemade risotto, White Russians, and who-knows-what on TV. Two years ago, I avoided you by seeing a movie with my parents then running back home to order pizza, drink wine, and bask in the glory of knowing how many people were having a terrible time with you. Last year, though, I made the grave mistake by giving you what would be your last chance. I stressed out over an outfit and a plan, went out on what I'm sure is the most mediocre New Year's Eve date in history and, SURPRISE SURPRISE, had a terrible time. Because you're terrible.

You're an overrated, overpriced, overconfident trash holiday that never fails to fail me, and I'm tired of putting on for you. You don't deserve it. So good riddance, New Year's Eve. May you continue to lead an empty, uninspiring life full of contrived champagne-cheers boomerangs, drunken arguments covered by forced midnight kiss photos, and microscopic bits of confetti that you're still finding around the house come June. 

Oh and Happy New Year, I guess.


Emma Golden4 Comments