So here it is again, in the darkest of winter, a mere week after the national shopping extravaganza that was once loosely tied to the birth of the christian savior, we have the birthday of the calendar.  Or something,  I don’t know.  The New Year.  Many cultures celebrate the turning of the year, marking upon the terrestrial earth the passing of the celestial earth.  One more lap around the sun.

Here in the USA we celebrate the turning of the calendar with a socially accepted binge drinking session.  A day and night where ordinary people, those that do not drink for the sake of it, get hammered.  We’re talking fraternity house Saturday night hammered.  People who would spend a normal weekend catching up on the crossword and supping tea are thrust into writhing seas of bodies, showering themselves in champagne.

It is socially acceptable on this day for you to drink yourself into a babbling fool, with urine and vomit caking your clothes.

The day of debauchery has been so ingrained into our society that the first day of the year has earned the unofficial holiday title of “national hangover day”.

You might take from this post that I have a problem with this, quite the contrary.  I marvel at how a society that by the standards of the rest of the industrial western nations would be called puritanical, this day all those who can are encouraged to get so snookered that brain damage might, and most possibly will, occur.

So go get fucked up America. Wake up next to some stranger with the taste of gun metal and vomit in your mouth.  For you begin each year with the vision to create the next, I say let it be blurry.   Let the first impressions of the new decade be of a pounding headache and the feeling that something sticky is inside of your brain.