If we were the kind of friends who unironically raised our glasses in toasts, I would give one to the generation too comforted by the ease of a honeybee in the plaintively nonexistent mind of a tulip
To the generation, or at least its subset that wrongly feels representative, who stumble drunkenly or maybe just tiredly out of tents to **** in the view of their friends, who are still at the fire because the tent was too cold
To those who did raise their glasses in a toast on New Year’s Eve at what felt, with the ball drop not screening in luddite protest, enough like midnight. Beginning with “dear friends” and a couple laughs; concluding with “now let’s get ****** up” and a couple more
To those who proceeded as directed, clinking their shot-glasses and swigging them back. If only because they were not tulips.