Euphoria's goooooone it's time to move ooooonnnnnnn
This is my brain. Flailing wildly between U2's New Year's Day, a plaintive, seminal New Year's song from forty years ago (WHAT THE FUCK) and Switchfoot's New Year's Day, a fun rollicking hooky song that's only seven years old.
This is normal. This is me. Either sad or crazy and never sure which power to harness and which one to ride out.
What are you doing?
I yank off my headphones just as ABBA's Happy New Year starts (it's a playlist I made, okay? Here we are, me and you, feeling lost and feeling bluuuuuueeeee). I am disappointed at being interrupted in my epic once-a-year early morning routine where I finish off the final half-bottle of champagne and sing my heart out in the library where no one can hear me. This isn't a performance, it's a ritual.
The static makes my hair do fucked up things and Caleb laughs.
Ice cream?
It's eight in the morning. I doubt anything is open.
Maybe I brought a selection home and it's in the freezer.
I stand up, never taking my eyes off him, putting down my headphones, my phone. Moving slowly.
He moves to make room for me to leave the room and join him. It's a fake-out. I book it to the door and he blocks me and then turns and runs down the hall to the kitchen, grabs a spoon from the drawer and heads out the back door. I am left behind. Winner picks the loser's flavour is the rule. GREAT.
His resolution was to be kinder to me so he chooses coffee flavour since it's early. I am mollified and content. I have brain-freeze too but no one notices, or maybe no one really cares.