Party like a modern day Bukowski on New Year’s Eve.

This year I’m in no mood for packed rooms with egos as tall as the roof. I’m tired of some high-maintenance selfie starlet who want me to star in her own fantasy smartphone universe—well, tired, but I’d probably still hashtag-fuck her.
I want to drink myself senseless, grope my crotch, and feel my heart pressing against my chest. I want to be a gentleman when I walk in, and a beast when I walk out. I will my mind my manners, small-talk, straighten my hair in the stall but I will know that I’m in a bar – and however rich my wool is, my fate and my urges is no different than the schmuck ordering the next round. And I’m perfectly fine with that.