With the flip of the calendar we all enter clean slate/fresh start territory tomorrow. When I was younger, much — this notion filled me with the hope of new career challenges, jet-set vacation travel, and the promise that my youthful energies would carry me wherever I focused them. New year’s day at this age is pretty much ‘meh.’

I dislike my advancing curmudgeon ‘been there/done that’ mindset but in reality…I HAVE been there. And done that. I don’t entertain anymore; I’m rarely entertained, either, as the social circle I’m firmly trying to embrace probably views this evening as amateur night. Those folks are in black tie once a month; getting dressed up is called ‘Tuesday’ and thus this evening really doesn’t deliver unless one, of course, has traveled across the pond. Or has some illustrious theater person as a winter house guest in Palm Beach:

“Stop by around 11:00..we’re doing a light salmon buffet and Tom’s entertaining us all with his scenes from HAMILTON!!!”

Ahem. But that is not my evening here. Today is miserable. Cold, rainy; a metaphor for all my unfulfilled promise of the past year. I did not organize my life, let alone my closet. I did not lose 10lbs; in fact, I probably gained ten pounds. My love life is one long stretch of self-inflicted hand jobs with a rising penchant for kinkier porn because, well, who hasn’t seen a twink take a big cock? It’s 2019, people… that degree of smut is almost quaint in its predictability.

I don’t wish my last post of the year to be Debbie Downer. There are many blessings in my life; I’m not blind to that fact. But I digress; let’s focus on New Year’s Eve parties. Specifically NYC socialite Kitty Miller’s New Year’s Eve house party. The year is 1953. It all looks so picture-perfect. Elegant as shit. No doubt the most coveted invitation by the mere appearance of Reed and Diana Vreeland. Do come sit beneath the GOYA, sugar.

Happy New Year, bitches.

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