It's uncanny isn't it? Consider it the "Etch-a-Sketch" end of the year: each potent slug of champagne or cordial hopefully containing enough remedial fluid to depart the lesser memories of the past year from one's brain– then ‘Bang & Confetti!' the New Year comes. However, it feels as if the previous one has taken the sedentary position upon your skull (and wont be leaving as soon as you'd hoped).
And in this torpid state of effluvial excess and cranial duress- we make a plea to the New Year: "Ok, please- anything but this… I’ll...”– and the propitiations come tumbling down the creaky staircase of our conscience:
We’ll be a better this… We shall certainly do less of that… Or, at least, we’ll be more mindful of the other.”
But, alas, to no avail. Last Year’s Dog sank her teeth deep last night. Let’s try a little hair? A few prudish sips of some awful kitchen contrivance: a Bloody Mary that teeters on gazpacho and gasoline, or some deflated mimosa and your hair goes on end– back to retching and reeling all over. Alright then, nix the sauce fix the produce, but each disagreeable bit of food you laboredly nibble at prods you closer to the edge: your head spinning in direct negation of the Earth’s axis, every sound seems a shout: that dreadful television, a loved one’s courtesy, the window-side roosting of swallows, the neighbors, the car-horn, that fucking ringing–
“My god, is that just in my head!?”…
Then it comes…
With a frantic plunge towards the porcelain that would make Pete Rose blush you commence to disgorge, evacuate, void, volley, extirpate, manumit, ravage, assault, banish— I mean really lay waste.
Then, somehow, you don’t seem to feel so bad.
'Was that it?'
You think, sort of astonished— 'Last Year’s Dog was just a mangy old mutt!’
That aching bloat now replaced by a vague hollowness, though not so terrible. Your limbs unhinged, the thought of nourishment non-hostile, every sound more pleasant— you grow slightly abashed,
Were the swallows so bad? that loved one, you were quite rude to them (don’t even mention the neighbors)…
And because of what? A bit of drink? Surely, you’ve overcome worse (and worn, at odds, the better!)— Hell! just this, well Last, year even!
Well, why should This Year be any different?
And with that, what’s left (or left-over, if you must) of the year gone by — every wretched little morsel, every indecent ounce, truculent tidbit, corrosive crumb, mordacious molecule and acrid atom is sent spiraling, with a lever-push, out of sight— now the problem of Waste Management.
And Good Riddance!