Lamest one writes the New Year's outlook post!

While riding the free bus home, sober as a judge, failing to find any rock OR roll on Whyte Avenue (though I did see a woman hit a police officer), I realized, "Hey, this is a lame excuse to be the 'coolest kid on the block!'"
Or, by that, I mean, "lamest lamelord in Lameonia."
So, here I am, talking about myself to myself on New Years' Eve.
My first mistake was obvious: hanging out with people that have kids and don't have babysitters. 12:15: the party is over.
Second mistake: don't try to convince one of them that the other can stay home and be boring, while one of them goes drinking after midnight in the stupidest part of town. Instead, ask them to drop you off on Whyte Ave., thinking you'll find adventure.
Third: Don't find adventure.
Fourth: Forget to bring the book that has people's phone numbers in it, so you can't find out where they're being lame/cool/better than me.
Yeah, that basically sums it up.
Even my parents had more fun than me. I called them when Whyte Ave got boring and lonely, and they said "well, happy new year! We can't talk. We're doing drunken karaoke at your aunt and uncle's and cousins' house with all the other people you brushed off to go hang out with your friends with kids."
Oh.

***

Riding home on the bus alone on new years' eve could be interesting; I read a story in the Journal about the time drunk riders threw seats out the windows, and the cops followed behind, picking them up. And the time something else interesting happened. Not tonight. People were boring. "Happy New Year!" said one drunk young girl. How zany. No propositions, no puking, nothing.
And during the three-block walk from the bus depot to my parents' empty house, of course, 'the lames' set in badly.
What am I doing with my life?
What's coming in the next year?
Will I spend the rest of my life on the periphery of interesting/profitable realities? Will I eat from garbage cans and be generally unnotable until grave o'clock? Do I have a chance of making my mark on this world WITHOUT the use of weapons of mass destruction? Will my botany and journalism degrees ever fuck to form a super-degree that lets me write about science? Do I even like writing? Do I like anything more than I like NOT working and going camping/ bushwhacking/goofing off? Are there jobs for young gadabouts who are getting old and don't generally "gad" about? Do I write things that people would read? Do I spend my life fishing for compliments?
Who knows.
So, by the time I got home, I was ready to steal my parents' truck and drive out for some familial Karaoke. No dice. No keys. So I poured myself a 50/50/50 kahlua/vodka/milk White Russian (take a look at canadalebowski.blogspot.com for info on a proposed Big Lebowski festival in Edmonton), and started typing. And here we are.
It's 2006, folks. It's time for something to happen to me. I don't know what it is. I do know that I owe $475 for rent, and $400 for transmission work on my car the day I get back, so whatever's going to happen, if it's alright with everyone, I'd like it to happen soon. I'm bored, I'm getting older, and I'm ready for a change.
Here's to an intersting 2006.
Superdude