Kiefer and I don’t know what we’re doing for New Years yet. I’m afraid. So very afraid.
I’ve never been much of a celebrater on New Year’s Eve, and here’s why:
There was this one time…in high school (not band camp)…a friend had a New Year’s Eve party, and he had fireworks.
High Schoolers + Fireworks = Bad Idea
A small firework went astray, and when we scattered to avoid being hit by the rogue flame, a huge football player tripped and accidentally tackled me to the ground.
He landed on top of me. He was twice my size. It hurt. A lot.
The New Year’s Eve between Mephistopheles and Kiefer, I was dating the 22-year-old.
He took me to a party, and I met a lot of people. Why did I meet so many people? Because he kept dragging me from room to room every few minutes.
Why the constant movement?
Because his exgirlfriend was stalking us. She was the drunk lion, and I was the unknowing gazelle.
Finally, the 22-year-old had to take a bathroom break. (Never break the seal!) The lioness made her move.
Drunk Lion: Hi. I’m 22’s exgirlfriend. You’re cute.
Gazelle: Uh, thanks. ::sensing danger and slowly backing away::
Drunk Lion: I like you. ::grabs gazelle’s rump::
And that, my blog friends, is why I’m nervous about New Year’s Eve.