5
New Year’s Eve is not glamorous. That is propaganda pushed by people with money, coats that fit, and friends who don’t steal their chargers. Real New Year’s happens in sticky apartments, dented couches, borrowed outfits, and bathrooms that smell like regret mixed with dollar-store air freshener.
This is the Ugly, Broke & Smelly version of New Year’s—where nobody is rich, nobody is thriving, and everybody smells faintly like cold pizza, body spray, and poor decisions.
Welcome. Wipe your feet. Actually, don’t. It’s already disgusting.
This sentence is spoken by someone holding a drink they didn’t buy.
Broke New Year’s drinking works like this:
Someone pours you something in a chipped mug because “cups ran out.” You ask what it is. They say, “Just drink it, it’s fine.” It is not fine. It tastes like cough syrup and sadness.
Twenty minutes later you’re loud, confident, and telling everyone, “Nah I’m chillin, I barely drank.”
Your breath smells like a chemistry experiment gone wrong.
Your New Year’s outfit was assembled with:
Nothing matches. The shirt is wrinkled. The jeans are too tight because laundry hasn’t happened since “before Christmas.” Someone compliments you and you say, “Thanks, I’ve had this forever,” which is broke-person code for this cost $6 and I’m scared it’ll fall apart.
Shoes? Questionable.
Jacket? Optional.
Deodorant? Debated.
By midnight, you smell like sweat, smoke, spilled drink, and a faint hint of desperation.
The New Year’s party is in an apartment that:
Someone says, “Sorry about the mess,” but nobody believes this place has ever been clean.
The floor is sticky for reasons nobody wants to investigate. The trash is overflowing. The bathroom light flickers like it’s trying to escape.
There’s a chair in the corner nobody sits on because something happened there once.
The bathroom door barely closes. The lock doesn’t work. Someone shoved paper towels in the toilet because toilet paper ran out at 10:43 p.m.
Inside:
This bathroom smells like:
People leave the bathroom changed. Not better—just different.
Nobody knows what time it is. Phones are dying. The TV is buffering. Someone yells, “IT’S MIDNIGHT!” and everyone panics.
The countdown starts at 8.
Someone jumps to 3.
Someone screams “HAPPY NEW YEAR” at 6.
Someone kisses the wrong person.
Someone knocks over a drink.
Confetti made of ripped napkins flies through the air.
The clock finally hits midnight and half the room already celebrated twice and is now confused but emotional anyway.
New Year’s kisses in the Ugly, Broke & Smelly universe are not cute.
They taste like:
You kiss someone because:
Mid-kiss, you realize:
You pull away, nod like “yeah that happened,” and immediately pretend it didn’t.
Someone goes outside with fireworks they absolutely should not have.
These fireworks were:
One goes sideways.
One doesn’t light.
One explodes immediately.
Someone yells, “BRO MOVE!”
Someone’s shoe gets melted a little.
Everyone agrees it was “dope” and goes back inside coughing.
At 12:07 a.m., someone stands up.
“Yo… yo… listen.”
Everyone groans internally.
This person announces:
They end it with, “I love y’all for real,” then trips slightly and sits down.
Applause is polite but confused.
Phones come out. Brains shut off.
Texts sent include:
Someone sends a voice note that should’ve been illegal.
Someone posts a blurry selfie captioned NEW YEAR NEW ME while visibly falling.
January 1st will bring consequences.
Nobody planned transportation.
Rideshare prices are criminal.
Someone suggests walking “to save money.”
Someone else says, “I can drive” and everyone says NO YOU CAN’T.
You pile into a car that smells like fries and mystery. The driver overshares. The music is bad. Someone sleeps instantly.
You get dropped off two blocks away “because it’s easier.”
It is not easier.
You fall asleep:
You wake up at 11:46 a.m. dehydrated, confused, and spiritually damaged.
Your mouth tastes like carpet.
Your head is loud.
Your clothes smell like smoke and party sweat.
You whisper, “Never again,” knowing you’re lying.
Breakfast is whatever survived the night:
Group chats explode:
“Who threw up?”
“Where’s my charger?”
“Why is there a sock in the sink?”
Someone sends photos. Nobody responds.
You swear:
By 2 p.m. you’re on the couch, broke, smelly, and ordering food you can’t afford.
You say, “I’ll start next week.”
Next week fears you.
New Year’s isn’t about glow-ups or fresh starts.
It’s about surviving another lap around the sun with your dignity slightly damaged but your sense of humor intact.
It’s ugly.
It’s broke.
It smells weird.
And somehow… it’s beautiful.
🥂 Happy New Year, you filthy survivor.
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