On December 31 ... I will turn 51.

That's right, I was a ... New Year's Eve baby!

Everyone wants to be special and, over the years, many people have opined, "Oh Quill, you're so lucky to have such an auspicious birth date. Your birthday is a proverbial party."

In theory, theory and reality are the same. In reality, they're not.

Upon first glance, being born on New Year's Eve would seem to be the ideal birth date. When I was born, my Dad had a t-shirt printed up sporting the words, "The World's Best Tax Deduction" ... an additional dependent who had never cost him a penny. And, of course, there's the aforementioned advantage of being the birthday boy on a day when everyone is already celebrating.

But let me suggest that there are a number of mitigating factors that are, perhaps, not immediately apparent:

The New (Responsible) You

Quill is a wonderfully charismatic fellow and notoriously generous-in-spirit. He's made you laugh with his humor and cry with his poignance. He tutored your children, for free, and they are now Straight A students. And so, it's off to the store to find a birthday gift that will put a smile on his face and bring warmth to his heart. Right?

Wrong.

Christmas has come and gone and, as usual, you spent like a drunken sailor on shore leave. And so did your spouse. In the week between Christmas and Quill's birthday, you've had a chance to sober up and grasp the magnitude of your financial irresponsibility. On December 30, and now infused with the austerity of a Spartan, it occurs that you still don't have a present for Quill's birthday the very next day.

There's a corner of your living room with a pile of Christmas gifts for which you have yet to find a place for storage. You know, those shitty things you don't want but are loathe to throw out because they're new ... and which are, conveniently, still in their original boxes. Given your newfound fiscal discipline, you mosey on over. "He'll never know."

You re-gift.

And so, you find some non-Christmas themed wrapping paper and have at it, parceling up that automatic wine bottle opener ... while keeping for yourself the package of AAA batteries that came with it.

Since you have three automatic wine bottle openers yourself, it's probably a good bet that Quill already has at least one as well, and so, you decide to create the illusion of generosity by giving multiple gifts. Your eyes fall back onto the pile of Christmas rubble.

"Hello ... what's this?"

Quill's a literary fellow and philosophically inclined ... so maybe he'd be intrigued by that book your Far-Left, lesbian-leaning, radical-feminist sister thought would make a perfect stocking stuffer: "Aristotle WAS NOT a Feminist - A Critical Review of History's Most Over-Rated (non)Thinker." You skim the preview on the book's dustcover and realize it would render the logic-loving, evidence-embracing and biology-believing Quill speechless in abject horror ... but you figure you can pass it off as a 'gag gift.'

While you feel pangs of guilt about giving Quill a gift that's now on sale at The Dollar Store ... and a book fit for a lunatic ... a quick contemplation of your credit card debt fortifies your resolve to rein in the spending. "Besides," you think, "I'm sure he'll get lots of other nice stuff ... and it's the thought that counts."

The Fridge Is Full (of Leftovers)

In similar vein, you still have that Veggie-Meat Casserole you made for your extended family's Christmas Dinner, notable for only containing 7 calories per kilogram ... and completely untouched. It's been sitting in the fridge for a week and you're still steaming that no one even tried it ... all-the-while raving about your cousin Barb's (who, incidentally, is a whore) garlic mashed potatoes. But Quill's upcoming New Year's Eve/Birthday Party is your chance for redemption ... while making space in the fridge.

Never mind that Quill is the most notoriously committed carnivore you've ever met ... a two-legged hyena who's apt to growl at his plate even in good company. You nevertheless feel sure he'd intellectually appreciate the consequence of your veggie-meat culinary creation ... a colon cleanse with caloric accountability.

As so, over the strained silence and palpable disapproval of your husband as he intuits your intention, you slip your faux flesh containing casserole dish into a bag while assuming your 'resting bitch face,' signaling that you're prepared to scream for an hour if he dares utter a word.

Veggie-Meat tastes just fine ... once you get used to it.

Regrets, You've Got a Few ...

Speaking of Christmas and dining ... you did. Dine, that is. Even knowing that that whore's garlic mashed potatoes were made so delicious by including five pounds of butter and a gallon of full-fat sour cream ... you went back for three lumber-jack sized helpings.

Indeed, you engaged in such gluttony that even climbing onto the scales leaves you short of breath and induces an anxiety bordering upon depression. You CANNOT afford another such orgy of excess. And hence, the resting bitch face and the Veggie-Meat Casserole.

Upon arrival at Quill's New Year's Eve/Birthday Party, you decide your New Year's Resolutions cannot await another meal and endeavor to comport yourself in the manner of a monastic sparrow. With the conviction of the newly converted, and a subconscious realization that misery loves company, you become a veritable fountain of double entendres and euphemisms, steering every conversation towards dieting and attempting to enthuse others into joining you in weight loss purgatory.

"So, Lynn, what do you think of Trump's new Wall?"

"It's great. People will burn a lot of calories getting over that sucker."

"Hmm. I guess I hadn't thought of it as a 'free gym membership' ... sweet. And so what are your thoughts on Global Warming?"

"It's the cow's ... they're out-gassing a ton of methane. You know, we could do away with beef entirely because they've come up with a wonderful vegetable-based meat substitute that tastes almost the same. It's called Veggie-Meat. Isn't that fantastic news?"

"Yeah ... I suppose. BTW, what did you think about Quill's new poem, that tribute to Great Moms? It made me tear up."

"Oh, me too ... and that's wonderful. Did you know you can lose weight by crying? And it's not just water weight either. If you really bawl ... all the hyper-ventilating and thrashing about burns calories."

Liar, Liar

By long-established tradition, New Year's Eve brings out one of the most deceitful duplicities of humanity, a fraud so egregious that Charles Ponzi would recoil:

The singing of Auld Lang Syne.

In all the long history of Man, never has there been an activity or endeavor that more faithfully turns the decent into the degenerate.

Every person in the English-speaking world, with the singular exception of Quill, begins swaying back and forth, twisting their faces into exemplars of form over function, crooning out gibberish noticeably absent of syllables ... all in an effort to deceive their fellows into believing that they know a thing that they decidedly do not: The words.

Yes, everyone knows bits and pieces, and hence, the lies feel more like half-truths than the bald-faced doozies they are. The Truth is that even after decades of singing the same f***ing song ... a song's that's time and place of performance is 100% predictable ... everyone's been too damn lazy to Google the lyrics and commit them to memory.

"Tee hee hee, Quill, that's funny. So many people are like that. Of course ... I actually know the words.

J'accuse!!! You Are A Liar!!!

As evidence of the assertion, I proffer your pants ... they're on fire! And your nose, it's as long as a telephone wire. Coincidence!?!

NO ONE knows the words. Not event the first verse and chorus. And my ranting and raving will make no difference whatsoever. Here's the history and lyrics ... but I'd bet my ass that it still won't result in a single occurrence of singing the proper f***ing words:

Auld Lang Syne

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?

CHORUS:

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne. And surely you'll buy your pint cup!
and surely I'll buy mine!
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine†;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

CHORUS

And there's a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o' thine!
And we'll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

CHORUS

Instead, this is the kind of shit I have to listen to every year:

Ol' Owl Enzyme

Bla bla, acquaintance be forgot,
and bla bla bla bla ... bla
Bla bla acquaintance be forgot,
and ol' owl enzyme.

CHORUS:

For ol' owl enzyme ... my dear,
for ol' owl enzyme,
Bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla,
For ol' owl enzyme. Bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla
Bla bla bla bla bla bla.
Bla bla bla bla bla bla bla bla,
for ol' old enzyme.

The experience never fails to kill a little bit of the poet in my soul. Poor Robbie Burns. What if some future generation manages to mangle one of my poems this badly? I glance around and see people with glistening eyes, moved to tears by their nonsensical mumbling and periodic invocations of 'Ol' Owl Enzymes' ... which, needless-to-say, makes no sense irrespective of one's state of inebriation. Like zoological zombies speaking in tongues.

In any event, the next time you're feeling hard put upon because your birthday is on some nondescript date like May 11 or November 2 ... and you start pining for a birthday in the fast lane ... remember this post.

Quill ... Happy New Year guys. :-)

You guys know the QuillDrill. Be verbose ... but articulate.

And remember ...

Go Love A Starving Poet

For God's sake ... they're starving!