-I rang in 2003 violently dry-heaving in a bathroom in the bowels of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas during the wee morning hours of January 1st.  In a way, the experience would become a metaphor for the next twelve months – an incredible amount of effort was exerted but without much to show for it in the end.  2003 was supposed to be a year of maturation for me, a time when I would evolve from frat boy to manhood.  It didn’t quite play out that way.  As I look back, I can’t help but marvel at the money I made then spent, alcohol I consumed then saw again the next morning, and women I hooked up with then never saw again.  In other words, twelve months have passed and I’m right back where I started.  And I’m ready to do it all over again.  Welcome to a year in the life…

-What really pissed me off this year is people who kept telling me that I had to “pay my dues.”  That’s old peoples’ response to everything isn’t it?  “Well, you have to pay your dues.”  “You have to pay your dues first.”  “Don’t worry, you’re just paying your dues.”  You know what?  I’m sick of paying dues.  My whole life I’ve been paying dues.  When the fuck do I get paid?

-I just went into my bank account online and calculated how much money I spent this year.  It’s disgusting.  The problem with being twentysomething in New York City is that you can spend tons of money but gain nothing tangible.  Everything goes to rent, sushi, light beer, and cell phone bills.  I spent tens of thousands of dollars this year and the only proof I have that the money ever existed are a few bank statements and a new pair of Sauconys.

-People born this time of year were the kids who were always younger or older than everyone in their class.  I always thought it was strange that a decision your parents made when you were five would many years later determine who could binge-drink legally before or after everyone else.  And I love when people who were the oldest in their class and people who were youngest in their class meet, and find out they graduated at the same time.  The older person always has to annoyingly calculate the age difference: “Oh my God, I’m like eleven months older than you!”  And clearly no more mature.