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All my wasted New Year’s

Like every other party girl, I was always in search of the perfect New Year's Eve. Four years ago, I rang it in at a club on the Lower East Side with my then-boyfriend. Champagne rained down on our heads at midnight as we stood on a dance floor spilling over with people and vodka. I had always been searching for this feeling of belonging, this euphoria, and I had reached that beautiful point where I was slightly tipsy but not yet drunk, and I vowed to stay there this time.

Somehow, though, I managed to talk him into hitting up one more bar before we headed back to my parents’ place. And somehow, I managed to down another drink, then another, despite his hand reaching out to stop me. I remember flashes of dancing, and then stumbling home, and screaming something about the “golden-haired prince,” a waiter I just knew was flirting with me.

When I got home, I ran to the bathroom to throw up, and then came back as if nothing had happened. I did this multiple times before passing out, mascara smeared all over my face, one heel on and the other off. I was still wearing my glittery dress.

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