My Hemisphere

We're done for. Now I know what people mean when they say we're not getting out of this thing alive. There's no coming out clean. I've looked into the belly of the beast, and it looks like a goddamn chocolate chip cheesecake. Fuck April, January is the cruelest month. More like cruller month. I'm so lonely.

Let me tell you how this thing started: Fuck New Years. Fuck all the little happy couples and champagne flutes and balls and resolutions. People saying they'll be better, people saying they'll eat more green leafy things, and take up Pilates but not care about body image, and drive less, and tip more, and see the world, and be more politically correct, and just generally get upset at way too much shit, and actually actively listen, and all the regular things you're supposed to say. I see resolutions like drugs, only I like drugs. Just something to take your mind off of how unbearable your life really is, and all the people you actually hate that you have to see every day.

But me? I buy cheesecake. If I want to do a thing I'll do a thing, I'm not a fan of saying I'll do it first. I've let myself down too much this way.

Sarah, she thought I was serious. She dribbled a little bit of her drink on her dress, I made a stupid joke. Look out for the lush, something like that. It was an alcohol-infused joke, which, in my experience, those can either go over really well or really poorly. I thought I said it jokingly enough, made it big but not loud, goofy but not ridiculous. And Sarah did a really good job of hiding that she was mad at me right up until midnight. Everyone's counting down, getting their bubbly ready, solidifying their kissing partners. Three, two, one, HAPPY FUCKING—and I turn to her and kiss her. It's like a peck. It's nothing. It's even less than nothing because at least nothing can turn into something. It's one second and it's done, one second is all it takes.

I asked Sarah to join me in the bathroom. I asked her what was going on. She didn't appreciate me making a drunk girl reference in front of all our friends. I said it wasn't a big deal, she said that wasn't the point, I said, she said, I said she said I said she said and we made up and had sex. Later, not there in the bathroom, although that didn't stop Louis from thinking we did when we came out.

The next day when I woke up she was gone. There was this little note telling me something about space, she needed it, or we needed it, half of me was too groggy and the other half was too blind with rage to make out the sentences in any proper order. I couldn't help but thinking that I was one of her resolutions. The absence of me was a clean start to a crisp fucking new year.

Maybe I can't get too mad. Maybe she picked up a thing or two from me. Maybe she didn't feel like saying she'd do anything. Maybe she just wanted to do it, and then did it.

So I get cheesecake. Chocolate chip with a fudgey base and chocolate drizzle. I get donuts and pancake mix and bottles of whiskey. I get sea salt and black pepper potato chips, fruit snacks, and I eat frozen Cool Whip like it's goddamn ice cream. Because the only thing the new year signifies—at least in my hemisphere—is that the months to come, they're the coldest ones.