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Apparently I need to change. I did not arrive at this conclusion organically. No self-reflection journey, no quiet moment, staring out a window. It was more of a consensus, a group decision apparently I need to change because the ball is definitely going to drop. That part is happening whether I participate or not. Gravity tradition, Ryan Seacrest, whatever's in charge of that sort of thing has already clocked in. The question isn't if the ball drops. The question is, what happens after a full year, 365 days, an irresponsible number of hours, even more minutes than that. This is the amount of time you have to plan for a New Year's Eve party, and yet here we are, 12 hours out. Frantic group chats lighting up. We are in DEFCON one. People sending, so what's the plan Text with no one replying with a plan. Here's the problem. We have a location, champagne. Guests are coming, but Love, love has not RSVP'd yet. And that's the really, that's really the whole point, isn't it? No one is here for the champagne. No one is here for the countdown. We are here because somewhere in our brains, we believe that Calendar can do the emotional heavy lifting tonight. So naturally we start looking for women immediately. Not in a cool way, not in a confident way. Not in a good way whatsoever. In a way that suggests we believe time is running out on December 31st at 6:14 PM to make the next year a good one. And with every passing hour, our standards don't evolve. They just flat out a road. How did we get here? It started with a meeting. A war meeting, a strategy session with the boys to get to this point. It's an act of Congress subcommittees, filibusters. One guy, had a quote unquote check with his roommate. Another guy vanished for two weeks and re reappeared with opinions Hackathon with DJ Diesel at one point was on the table, but it was too far away. Then we had a masquerade ball, but that was too expensive then. It wasn't speakeasy, but no one had ever heard of it. We finally settled on a house party. We always had all in a house party, our own version of General Pat Grills. The questions, what time are we getting there? Who's driving? What's the ratio? The ratio? The ratio, as if the universe respects some sort of magical number. We're doing this all sitting in our hometown cafe, the same cafe we've gone to for the last 20 years. We sip our coffee, we take all this planning very, very seriously, and we make promises to each other. This year's gonna be different. We're not doing the same thing. No texting, exes, no ending up talking to the same people. These promises are made loudly. They're made confidently. They're made in a way that the, they're made in a way that the nearby tables are tired of hearing them. It's the only way you can lie to themselves. It's the way people lie to themselves when witnesses are present. We break the huddle. We're ready. We're ready. We're not ready, but we're ready. We are ready to solve the number one problem. We will just refer to it from here on out as the ratio we're gonna have to fix this ratio. Let's go to where we can find some people to fix this ratio. Before the party, let's go to a bar. The bar is electric, not because it's good. It's packed. Everyone is dressed. One, maybe two notches better than usual. There's optimism in the air mixed with cologne and probably future poor decisions. And it happens. It happened. It did. We met people, people we probably shouldn't be meeting. Not bad people. Just, uh, extremely dissimilar people. Different speeds, different goals, different, different definitions of fun. But tonight those people, they feel pretty cool. Pretty, uh, opportunistic. There's laughter. They're shouting over music. There's that dangerous thought. Maybe this is it. Nah, we convince ourselves. Turning a leaf, a big leaf, a dramatic leaf. The kind of leaf people referenced in future therapy sessions this year is going to be different. And no one ask why or how it should be different, but boy is it gonna be different. If we come, we ask them to come with us. And guess what? Beyond belief they do, they agree to come with us. This is where the knight officially made its first mistake. The house party looks exactly like it did last year. Same furniture, same lighting, same throwback. Drake blasting over the music. Same champagne, same decorations. The only difference in the corner, the new friends we just made at the bar are standing there by themselves. We should not have brought these people, not because they're bad, but because we are magnets. But because we are creatures of habit and despite all of our speeches, we are drifting towards the exact same humans we always do across the room. I see her, my boy's ex, she looks great. She always does. She's effortlessly chaotic. The kind of person who enters a room and everyone kind of sighs. Where everyone kind of sighs at first, but they can't help but look at her for a little while longer. She's surrounded by, she's surrounded by her homegirls already stirring something up. I watch that she tries boldly, recklessly to pawn a random guy off on her best friend, her best friend who's in a long-term relationship. For three years. Everyone in the room knows this. The random guy does not, this isn't subtle. This is performance art. And I, and I grab a drink that I don't need and, and, and I just catch myself staring, and then inevitably I'm talking to the dramatic one. We talk. We catch up and we keep talking and we keep catching up. We talk through side conversations and refilled cups. We talk through songs ending and starting again. We talk through the lights getting flipped on and an announcement that cops are here. We talk through people shouting 10 minutes, like that's useful information. There's eye contact. Too much eye contact, butterflies doing laps. Midnight approaches, and I know, I know this is a bad idea. She is not a good person. Not in a villain way, in a beautifully destructive, manic, chaotic, bad for you way, the kind of person you survive with a smile, but you don't date them, you don't change your life with them. The countdown starts. Everyone pairs off like it's choreographed. 10, 9, 8. She looks at me. Seven, six. I feel it. This is the moment where I lean in. I get closer to her and make it clear. She's gonna be my New Year's Eve Kiss five, four. I don't, three, two. I look away. One the room erupts. Champagne sprays. Kisses everywhere. Not us. We don't kiss, call it cold feet. She declared me to be gay, but maybe just maybe I had warm clarity. I look at her and smile. She doesn't return it. But we have the same feeling. We've both nearly avoided something expensive. At that point, desperation sets in. All the boys have had their New Year's kiss, but it's going nowhere further, and this desperation suggests that mobility will solve all of our emotional problems. We should go to another bar. Someone says like it's a solution, not a reflex. But it's too late. The damage or lack of damage is done. The night is winding down. The streets are full of people pretending it's too early. Ride shares are impossible. Everyone is suddenly tired. Then it hits me and that's when we know we didn't change, but didn't we. Last year we got the kiss and last year sucked. This year we didn't. Maybe this year will blow.