Dec. 2012: I found myself deeply single and stuffed with nihilism at the expected annual tradition of having someone to kiss at midnight for the new year.

So I printed out a full-page photo of Brad Pitt, folded it up in my pocket, and brought it with me to a NYE party.

I decided that instead of succumbing to the anxiety of being “left out,” I would create my own tradition. I tucked the photo away in a box only to pull it out Dec. 2013 and carry it with me to a mellow hang at my friend’s house where I once again made it my NYE kiss.

When I spent NYE home alone, I kissed The Same Photo Of Brad Pitt. When I had to work the graveyard shift, I kissed The Same Photo Of Brad Pitt.

Even though I’d gotten tucked into my jammies ready to call it a night, I made sure that when midnight struck, I was to kiss The Same Photo Of Brad Pitt.

At a 2017/18 NYE house party where I knew hardly anyone, I found one person I knew. I pulled him aside and asked if he would be willing, at midnight, to take a photo of me kissing The Same Photo Of Brad Pitt. He said yes.

At a 2018/19 house party, beholden to no one (but given permission to use the book ladder) I took the photo of me kissing The Same Photo Of Brad Pitt myself.

To ring in 2020, I made sure to look hot as hell while once again kissing The Same Photo Of Brad Pitt.

I cannot for the life of me explain why I am still doing what would have been fine as a mildly humorous one-off, but I’ve gone too far to stop now. I even keep it in a little plastic sleeve so the lipstick doesn’t rub, like an absolute freak.

There’s a hand in the 2020 photo like someone’s trying to take it away from me. That’s because when I asked someone to take the photo, two people standing nearby asked if they could also kiss The Same Photo Of Brad Pitt with me, and we did.

Absolutely fucked.