New Year’s Eve?

So, I’m wondering: What’s everyone doing for New Year’s Eve here in this fair city of brotherly love, soft pretzels and $2 lager?
 
I’m thinking cheap drinks in even cheaper settings until my head explodes and/or I ring in the satanic baby new year, whichever comes first, but this city is so full of white trash potential, I’d hate to miss out on another year of double-fisted Yeungling sing-along with Bon Jovi….
 
Thoughts please…
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Attack of the sugar plum faeries….

Oh ho ho ho! Believe me, sugar is so a drug!!!

Oh, the sugar pushers don’t want you to know, don’t want you to realize that the copious amounts of candy canes, chocolate bits of sticky goo and crunchy sweet cookies are slowly sucking the very life from your veins and replacing it with a sickly sweet substance that is forever in need of replenishment…

Don’t believe me? Hit the post-holiday sales, snatch up a bagful of red, green and satanically bad for you tooth decay in a box, and eat just one serving of it…

I dare you.

Before long you’ll find yourself dreaming of it, drooling in your sleep as Johnny Depp takes you on Chocolate Factory-worthy adventures (as opposed to the usual nocturnal adventures starring a certain Mr. Depp, which generally tend to focus on a candy of a, ah, different sort…). It will consume you as you slurp down your staid, healthy breakfast, endure a bland, lowfat lunch of blah, sit in front of the TV downing yet another plateful of ick.

I fucking dare you.

And then you’ll be just like me, twitching like a fleshy tweeker, digging through the artic depths of the fridge hoping for just one bit of freezer-burned sugary badness that got away.

Pacing your room when you should be asleep, mind racing, feverish, arguing with yourself that you just need one more — one more kiss, one more cookie, one goddamn more cane — and you’ll be fine. You can control yourself. You’re fine. You’re good. You just, you know, need a little bump

Believe me, I know….

I blame Brooklyn.

I used to be able to control my impulses, destroy the box of Pop Tarts and move on, eat some fruit the next day. But the Firklover bar changed all that the day my cousin and I hit one of few remaining vestiges of the once mighty Viking stronghold in Bay Ridge: Nordic Delicacies.

On a holiday mission to acquire one almond-centric traditional ring cake for my old Norse father, we bought chocolate bars the size of our heads, and nearly as heavy, ripping into the first as we descended into the subway, cake in hand.

A week and a half later the full ramifications of my sugar-fueled rampage are on full public view: my vision is blurry from too many sleepless nights fueled by ADHD-aiding sugar and a cocoa high so powerful my heart beats at odd intervals, my fingers are stained from constant, compulsive contact with red and green dye, and my tongue is a permanent shade of maroon from the mixing of the sweets.

I’m a monster!!!

Someone, please save me….

Save me from myself…

SEND FRUIT!!!