When it turned midnight, a year ending and another one beginning, I was on a rooftop in Bushwick surrounded by friends while making out with Diego. Kissing him was fantastic and relieving. The happiness I got from that kiss, that moment, was because there was the knowledge of recent New Year's Eves, all outrageously terrible, and because this one did not seem to be such a thing, was nice, pleasant, and fun, that I wasn't cursed to have a terrible night every year on this night, that I was alive and happy.

Diego soon left for Metropolitan with his friends, telling me that he wanted to sleep over and that I should meet him at Metropolitan. And because apparently I did not learn my lesson a few days ago when I took my sweet time in getting to this exact same bar to meet a boy I liked a lot, I continued to hang out in Bushwick, time passing faster than I realized, my sense of time probably altered by excessive consumption of vodka and some pot smoked.

Around two, I arrived at this bar, and soon after got a text message from Diego saying, "Just left."

All evening I had had the expectation that I was going to end my night with this boy, that I would have sex with him, and that I would then sleep next to him, and this thing to look forward to provided me lots of happiness. When this thing was no longer going to be such a thing, when he had probably just gone home with someone else, that happiness quickly departed. I was feeling pretty glum, New Year's again seeming like this night of outsized importance, that how one starts a year has a symbolism for how that year is to proceed that may or may not be true, but which on New Year's Eve I always think that is so, and so this news, his departure, and how it meant I would be sleeping alone, really brought me down.

It didn't help that I talked to some boy I had met at the Marc Jacobs holiday party, exchanged numbers with there, and had had tentative plans to hang out with, which he never followed through on, never called me back about. He kept apologizing to me as if my feelings should have been hurt by his not calling me, and I didn't care, didn't care at the time, and certainly didn't care last night, my mind on other things other than this boy whose name I could not and still cannot remember.

I drank more. I saw a boy who looked like David, who I thought was. I went up to talk to him thinking he was a person he wasn't. His name was Amit and he said that we were subway buddies, that he always sees me on the L train. I felt his chest and told him that I wished I could play it with more, could be somewhere where his clothes would not be a hindrance to doing so. Diego was on my mind in this moment. Sex with a really attractive person needed to occur, or I thought so then, that that would make me happier, erase the sadness, the feeling of rejection.

Amit and I walked to his house, cutting through McCarren Park, talking about other places, origins. In his bedroom, we listened to music and smoked some pot. We undressed each other and had sex. We lay next to each other talking about our love lifes, it being pretty apparent that this was a one night thing, and so both really comfortable talking about other people, things we wanted, things other people wanted. We had sex again. He mentioned going to get pizza, and I thought this was a cue for me to leave, thought that he didn't want me sleeping over, but this also very well could have been a bit of paranoid thinking induced by being stoned. I was sad about leaving, not only didn't want to have to get back home, but really did want to sleep pressed up against someone, to not wake up alone. His bed was also really comfortable. I got dressed and left, not exchanging numbers.

I woke up this morning hungover and alone, no one else home.