Marissa Duke

A wise man once said that the way you spend New Year's Eve is the way you'll spend the rest of next year. Okay, I actually heard it on "The OC." But if that's true, I guess that in 2006 I'll be mistaking sleeping pills for my antidepressants and going home before the real party starts. It's going to be a shitty twelve months.

The holiday is typically a disaster for me. There was that 2003 debacle when I got wasted somewhere in California and my dad had to drive me home. In 2004, my parents and I went to Washington D.C., where we got in a huge argument over...food or my grades or some other thing we always fight about. In fact, the last good New Year's Eve I can remember was 2001: I went over to my closest friend's house and we stole beer from her parents and watched "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" and gossiped and giggled all night.

But this time, I decided, I was going to make my own fun. I'm young! I'm in Chicago! I should go out and act my age! How many more years do I have to act truly ridiculous before I just look like some sad old woman trying to hold onto her youth? (No offense.)

Everyone knows the perfect night needs the perfect wardrobe, but fabulousness doesn't always require great effort. I wore the cowboy boots I always wear, a short jean skirt, plain black top...the kind of outfit that says I can be fabulous without trying at all. I decided at the last minute that I'd straighten my hair, and as I reached for the straightener in my closet I saw the three little bottles of pills all lined up on the shelf. "Shit! Prozac!" I remembered and reached for an orange bottle, popped a couple into my mouth and swallowed them down with a gulp of wine. (And don't even tell me I'm not supposed to drink on the meds. It's New Year's Eve; let me have my fun.)

I wandered over to Karen's place. We didn't really have anything special planned; I just wanted to make an appearance at a few house parties and see friends who were away over Christmas. But when I'm with these people, I know the most ridiculous things will happen: from skinny dipping in the lake to spur-of-the-moment road trips to the suburbs, from strip poker to hard-core Scrabble games that last till six in the morning. And if you don't think this sounds entertaining, all you need to do is spend one night with us to realize how quickly something as simple as carousing by the fire can evolve--no, devolve--into full-on debauchery.

Basically, I was just looking for some old-fashioned fun and maybe--maybe--a kiss at midnight would be nice.

"Heyyy!" Karen greeted me at the door with the best hug I had received in weeks. We hadn't seen each other for almost six months. Her party was very chill: good friends, champagne, the Roots playing on the stereo. One of the last to arrive, I got to enjoy a few minutes in the spotlight and told them all of my most recent adventures. I know I was talking too loudly and dancing in my seat, but it's New Year's Eve and finally, I was going to have a good time.

I had just finished my first drink when I began to feel woozy. This was accompanied by a dull, throbbing sensation in my temples. Later, I'd realize that instead of grabbing my Prozac, I'd mistakenly picked up the bottle of Seroquel but, at the time, I didn't know what had hit me. The two glasses of wine? No, I'm much more of a lush than that.

"Hey, Karen? I need to get some air," I excused myself, completely intending to come back later. After all, she only lives two blocks away. I started walking in the direction of home.

The next thing I remember, I'm slumped on the steps of our neighboring apartment building. Well, it took me a minute to realize where I was. Terrified, freezing, and still woozy, nothing looked familiar. I made my way to my apartment, somehow managed to find my keys in the black hole that is my purse, and collapsed on the couch.

I awoke a few minutes after midnight. Still groggy, I saw that, somehow, the TV had been turned on and some cheesy movie was playing. "Well, Happy New Year," I wished the cat who had curled up on my stomach. It felt kind of ironic. This is probably the way I'll spend not only the next year, but the rest of my life as well--some even sadder old lady all dressed up on a Saturday night watching "The First Wives Club" with her cat.

Damn it, now where's that Prozac?

(2006-01-03)

Also by Marissa Duke

The Agony and the Ecstasy
First times are supposed to mean something. You're at least supposed to remember his name.
(2005-10-18)

The Agony and the Ecstasy
I look over at the slimy little man suddenly squatting by my chair. A tacky, striped shirt covers his pale body and tiny glasses perch before a pair of beady eyes. His hair is greased back and almost hidden by a beanie cap. Didn't those go out of style in, like, the nineties?
(2005-09-20)

The Agony and the Ecstasy
So apparently guys don't like to be written about in magazines
(2005-09-06)

The Agony and the Ecstasy
I love kissing and I love sex, but merging mouth and genitals makes as much sense as putting ketchup on ice cream
(2005-08-09)

The Agony and the Ecstasy
(2005-07-26)

about Newcitychicago | about Newcity magazine | advertising | privacy policy | FAQ | employment