Five years ago while sitting on the couch at my sisters freezing my toosh off my brother-in-law nonchalantly tossed an over sized sweatshirt and said, “This should keep you warm. Ya know what, you can have it.”

I’ve been wearing the over sized sweatshirt for three hours now.

My sister studdered down the stairs while glaring at me. “Wh… Where did you get that?”

Her husband began to cheer laughter as the Steelers made a touchdown.

F:I gave it to her. Its her color don’t you think?”

J: You just sounded so gay.

My sister chuckling to herself and at her own humility whined his name and hid a smile.

C:Ffaaa….

The sweatshirt was her favorite from college, now it’s mine. The former owner who gave it to her doesn’t matter(an exboyfriend) because to me, its from the two of them. They’ve since picked out sweatshirts together that are unitarily, “more their color.”

The arms loosely hang an extra six inches of unneccesary material. The length hits midway down my thigh and rests on a patch ofreckles. An extra large blue sweatshirt from UNC Chappel Hill that wears the statment “Carolina Law”.

I could live here in this type of comfort. This is my fire place and fuzzy slippers.

Merry Christmas and Charlie Brown.

Work with me here, I’m trying to get into the spirit.

“In my mind I’m goin to Carolina”

New Years Eve is a crock.

I’ll type it again.

New Year Eve is a crock accentuating only the ill contrived one pump chump enjoyment. It reminds me of The Choker and being left on the side of the road like a piece trash thrown out the window. That’s another story for another time. I’m digging deep here and showing vulnerable, vacillating between revealing my past and present with you. It hurts the way walking across hot coals burn your core while the farenheit rises on your personal gadge releasing a blind gas.

Now you know, my nightmares.

I digress

Perhaps, New Years Eve used to mean more. I’m not talking Farmers Almanac and gold star awards for a Pulitzer Novel but let’s face it, trying to derive a reason to get drunk, dress up, make noise, and wear funny hats is about as meaningful as drinking Sleepy Time tea to go to sleep.

Pointless.

There are nights it’s necessary because the voice won’t stop like the calendar continues to turn. The pages peel away from the binding and ground the inevitable external mourning. Indeed, it does go faster as you age. I blinked and my childhood was ripped away like a check I forgot to cash.

It keeps getting better, right?