New Year's Eve was unfolding like every other year, with the same tired routine: eat my mom's mediocre meatballs, pretend to have fun at my cousin's friend's open-bar apartment, and attempt to will the crowd into a decent countdown without anyone shouting "Ten seconds!" like I do.
In an ill-fated bid to participate, I tried to dance, resulting in me bumping into a lamppost, a bewildered cat hissing at my knees, and, unfortunately, a minor scuffle with a flailing umbrella over control of the last slice of mediocre pizza. It was then that I spotted Karen from my college philosophy class standing by herself, clutching her overpriced "E Pluribus Unum"-emblazoned flask. Maybe, I thought, this year we could actually have a decent conversation about something other than "What do you mean 'the inherent meaning of our existence' isn't as straightforward."
In an ill-fated bid to participate, I tried to dance, resulting in me bumping into a lamppost, a bewildered cat hissing at my knees, and, unfortunately, a minor scuffle with a flailing umbrella over control of the last slice of mediocre pizza. It was then that I spotted Karen from my college philosophy class standing by herself, clutching her overpriced "E Pluribus Unum"-emblazoned flask. Maybe, I thought, this year we could actually have a decent conversation about something other than "What do you mean 'the inherent meaning of our existence' isn't as straightforward."
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