Dear New Year’s Eve,

For some arbitrary reason, everyone subscribes to this cooked-up, grandiose idea that you’re supposed to be a magical evening, with kisses at midnight and bubbling champagne bottles. Bars get a kick out of selling overpriced tickets for their own New Year “Spectacular,” just so that they can fill their place to maximum capacity and make everyone feel like canned sardines. In reality, the chances of ending up facedown in the toilet are much greater than the odds of finding a flirty stranger to ring in the new year with, despite what every rom-com in existence would have one expect.

Why do you inspire such false expectations? Honestly, you’re just completely overrated.

Even worse is your byproduct: New Year’s Resolutions. Too many people decide that you are a good reason to start a new health regime that, realistically, will probably only last for the first two weeks of January.

Every gym, health club, yoga and pilates studio suddenly is intent on telling me that I too can achieve a slimmer, fitter me, but only if I sign up now!

Your resolutions are superficial promises to ourselves. We do not need to make unrealistic goals just because we crossed you off our calendar. No amount of celebrity-endorsed juice cleanses, Pinterest articles on how to “Get Organized in the New Year,” and vague promises to get better grades next semester are going to significantly change who I am in the new year, so why should I let you bring me down?

When it comes down to it, you’re just an excuse for bars, concert halls and taxi services to quadruple their prices. Those Uber surge prices are almost as painful as the itchy sequin dresses and sky-high heels that women are forced to don as the essential elements of the New Year’s uniform.

I’m sick of waking up on January 1 to an Instagram flooded with “New Year, New Me” selfies and getting harassed by friends to be their gym buddy. You get so built up just to be, undoubtedly, the worst night of the year. I fully propose that we start celebrating any random day in March, instead, to commemorate the fact that the new year newness has officially died down.

All the Worst,

            New Year, Same Me