【history of eroticism volume】

We made it. It's finally the end of an awful year.

Typically,history of eroticism volume the world collectively celebrates a staggered New Year's Eve with the clock striking midnight in each time zone and copious amounts of alcohol, impressive fireworks displays, and a substantial spread of cheeses and meats.

We watch tourists in diapers and branded purple hats piss themselves for the chance to see an unimpressive ball "drop" from a metal pole in Times Square, and maybe even appear on TV for a brief second.

For the first (and probably only) time all year, someone plays a bad version of "Auld Lang Syne." You know the song: "Should old acquaintances be forgotten / And never brought to mind?"

(If you must play it, at least play Mariah Carey's version.)

We kiss and we hug, scream with joy and make as much noise as possible, counting down the seconds as we ring in the new year with hopes, wishes, and resolutions to do better next year.

This ritualistic celebration of New Year's Eve is inevitable, even in a year with so much pain and suffering. Those selfish enough to congregate will do so. Underground parties will rage, TV networks will host some awkward socially-distanced program with mediocre musical performances, and the rule followers will "celebrate" alone at home or with family, pretending to forget for just a night how fucked up the world is right now.

But you don't have to do it at all. That's right: You don't have to celebrate if you don't want to. You don't have to dial into that sad New Year's Eve Zoom someone thought would be a good idea and everyone else felt too guilty to decline. You don't have to go to your friend's house for "socially-distanced drinks," or even participate at all.

Just go to bed. Pretend it's another boring Thursday night. Watch a movie or take a bath. Don't look at the clock. If there is any night to head to bed at 8:00 p.m. and sleep the night away, it is Dec. 31, 2020.

But ... "Maybe next year will be better than the last."

Maybe, but don't set your hopes too high. With the pandemic raging on and its longer-term economic effects still to be seen, 2021 isn't looking to be a great year, either. But, fuck, if you want to close out the year with a joint and a nap, do it. If you want to read a good book and snuggle up with blankets on the couch, do it. If you want to rewatch The Officefor the 100th time, by all means, do it.

You don't have to celebrate anything, even the end of this shitty year.

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