Here is what I should do. Stay home, play my newly purchased Skyrim: Dragonborn DLC on Xbox, have a couple brandies, lay on the couch with the cat. Maybe make some chicken. Beat off. Do some pushups. Go to bed early and wake up to a healthy and productive January 1st.
Here is what I’m going to do: haul ass all over town half-drunk on the most cop-laden night of the year searching desperately for pussy. Text people I have no interest in talking to looking for a house party. Every bar and every party house is going to be “popping,” “going off,” but one in a thousand will be where the pussy is. One party in the entire town will have three or more reasonably attractive women who aren’t part of a couple and are kind of feeling like hey, it’s New Years Eve, I better have unprotected sex with some aging drunk. There are maybe five of these women in greater Los Angeles and three million men all out looking for them. The guys who know where that place is guard this secret like the nuclear fucking football; their sole purpose in life is to make sure you don’t show up and cockblock. But I’m gonna be steaming around town hammered with a brake light out looking for the Golden Ticket like every other schmuck. Because I have to. Because what if.
I will fail. I have never, not once, got laid on News Years Eve. And who gives a fuck. I get laid on Tuesday, December 17. I slay more pussy than the animal shelter and why is it such a big god damn deal to get laid on the least getting laid night of the year. Every party is going to be couples and old people. This is their one night of the year to cut loose. People no one gives a shit about talking to. You have paired off, now go die quietly, but still– one night a year they gotta shake off the dust and dress up. Look meaningfully into one another’s eyes and kiss while I stand around awkwardly wondering if my coke dealer will get sketched out delivering to a stranger’s house. The saddest thing in the world is looking for pussy and not finding it. It’s the god damn Vietnam War. A brutal and costly misadventure. But you have to.
You have to because what if. You stay in your nice quiet comfortable house sipping brandy and eating chicken and you think: what if I had gone out and my future wife was there. You hear excited laughter down the street and you think: what if I’m missing the Shangri La of nineteen year old pussy and high quality cocaine that gets you high but still allows you to get a boner and great music and wonderful conversations and etc. etc. etc. What if. What if this is the one time New Years Eve didn’t suck balls. Life teaches you many lessons but the one that you are congenitally incapable of actually listening to is: there is no pussy out there on special occasions. There is only sad desperate sausage; the whole world is guys like you who couldn’t listen to their good sense and had to dress up sharp and wash their ass crack and apply extra deodorant and drag around in the cold rain. But still. What if. Maybe that discarded scratch ticket hanging out of the ashtray in the 7-11 parking lot is a winner.