The Last Night of 2010
By Julia, age 14, New York
Stiff uncombed twigs known as my hair were tousled in a meaningless bun. Unwanted pimples had ballooned to the size of bug bites, and drawstring pajama bottoms rode comfortably low on my waist. Nestled between two cushions on the family room couch, I envisioned the teenagers of planet Earth exchanging sparklers and counting down memorable moments from the year. Then, of course, there was me.
It wasn't as if my year had not been satisfying. I had learned to manage disarray with a genuine smile. The unreasonable girl fascinated with vileness had been conquered, and happiness was initiated in a vessel that used to home insincerity. I only wished that New Year's Eve could be a testament to that.
A burning sensation caught my forehead, so I reached up to scratch the itch. Unpolished nails caught an infection instead, leaving blood to cascade into my fingers. After concluding My Sister's Keeper with the attendance of family, my body reclined limp and drear. While my mom suggested we retire to bed, my sister and I agreed that we should wait until the new year to settle in for the night. It was the least festivity we could subject ourselves to in order to acknowledge the holiday.
The glass ball televised from New York City is one of the greatest over-dramatizations of all time. City lights beat down on its surface, yet the eloquence of it seemed void funneled through cameras and television networks. Something so intricate cannot be possibly appreciated hundreds of miles away.
"Isn't it so beautiful?" my mother inquired.
"Yeah," I half-heartedly fibbed. "It's just alright."
Despite my feeble attempt at objection, captivation stayed with the shimmering substance amongst the company surrounding me. Reporters gushed at its brilliance while I proclaimed New Year's to be a lifeless, futile dog.
They said there were ten minutes remaining to the beginning of a fresh establishment, yet they failed to mention the ten minutes still remaining in the present.
My New Year's resolution? I attempted to brainstorm one while Mr. Raggi met a dead end explaining crustal boundary collision, though all I could think about was how continental crust glides on top of ocean crust leaving it paralyzed with no alternatives other than surrendering.
Perhaps my resolution was buried beneath my continental exterior, lurking in ocean waters below typical expectation. But perhaps that water was nothing more than age-old liquid. Perhaps making a resolution in the honor of a clock movement was foolish in itself. Surely the "New Year" didn't aid Margret on the infomercial to mystically drop fifty pounds with some fitness machine that is yours for three easy payments of $49.99. She did not need scientifically engineered Gatorade to power through her intense workouts, nor did it require the sweat-absorbing might of Under Armour. New Year's has been branded to suck the wallets out of individuals while disguising the demeanor as a route to personal health.
I may not have created a New Year's resolution, though I did have a suggestion for the future: Since America does not need another excuse to misuse money, we as a united nation should boycott New Year's celebrations. Saint Valentine could use a vacation too.
"Five! Four! Three! Two! ..."
Happy New Year, I guess.