I’ve never been one for New Year. I’d rather be cracked on the arse by a bullwhip. All that weird kissing and touching business, hugs and kisses from people you don’t know and you’re obliged to hug and kiss them back. They’re all drunk, lurching around from person to person, crying because last year was shit and hoping the next one will be better. And how can the stroke of midnight change things anyway? What’s all that about?
Last night, if I’d had the energy to let someone crack me on the arse with a bullwhip, would have been so different from what it actually was. Except I didn’t have the energy. I went to bed early—on purpose, to avoid all this silly business of repeating Happy New Year to people and having not just my personal space but my body—mainly the torso and my cheeks—violated. Yes, violated. Clearly, going to a party isn’t for me.
So there I was, pleased to be falling asleep. I drifted off. Then someone text me. Oh, God. Who DOES that anymore now there’s Facebook and Twitter? Memories of years gone by, when mobile phones didn’t have the silent function and everyone texted, one bloody message after another, came to mind. I was stupid to leave my phone on audible, so grabbed it from under my pillow to click the message, as my phone has the unfortunate habit of bleeping again to remind me a text came in. You know, just in case I forgot the first time. I didn’t check to see who’d sent it. I recall muttering the C word at whoever it was.
I settled back to sleep. Got right into a dream that I was in WW2 times and some mystery soldier was priming my arse ready for a slap. Then, in that creepy moment between sleep and awake, some bastard out the back let off fireworks. My subconscious knew it was fireworks, but my dream self thought it was bombs. I had a horrible few seconds wondering where I should run, naked as I was, having been bent over a trench awaiting a strike from the soldier, then another load of pops went and I knew for sure.
The C word passed my lips again (with an S on the end), and I tried to get back to sleep. I wanted a smack not a bloody lightshow.
Whoever texted me can go and do one. Whoever set those fireworks off can go and do one—I mean, they were having fun and interrupted mine. How could they? Have your fun, yes, just don’t expect me to dig on down with it when you spoil mine.
I’ve become reclusive, I get that. I’m well aware I’m avoiding contact with real people. And I’m okay with that. I think. I do wonder if it’s “normal”. But then what is? Some would say, being whipped on the arse isn’t normal, but I’m starting to think it might well be my new normal.
So my New Year’s resolution is to try that. Or think about trying that. We’ll see how that goes and whether I fail at the first hurdle.