our toast goes something like this...

rung in and out and the mascara is starting to run. a few drinks too soon, i think i might get sick all over this guy's attempt to sleep with me. but at least i'm getting out there right?

drunken twenty-somethings grinding to songs that weren't even popular when they came out, ashing all over someone's carpet. i stand in the back with my token smirk, and we have a good go at judging them. but this is good for me, right?

new year come, and eventually it'll be gone. yeah, my tattoos hurt. yeah, i live in austin. yeah, i really like my new glasses too. no, i don't like this song, and i don't want another drink. no, i don't go to school. just tell me, what are your passions?

i've always hated parties, and i didn't want to come tonight. somehow, it becomes a point of interest, and this is why i don't want to be here. their breath smells bad against my cheek, shouting over the music, and i can see him standing there, laughing. is this supposed to be making me feel better?

no.

if i could show you a reel from how we use to make it happen, the new year, you'd flip with anticipation. you'd see the goddamn beauty, and you'd wish it for yourself. if i could truly tell you the way he looked at me right after midnight, like we've got a whole new go at it, like the world was right between us, like we had a brand new year to smash to pieces for the hell of it, you'd see why i'm not smiling.

so i raise my plastic cup with cheap champagne and lift my chin to those stars that no one bothers with anymore, and i scream so my lungs hurt, "to fucking rock 'n' roll!"

i love you, bean. happy new year.