Unhappy Old Year?

Drunk off cheap wine ordered off a trillion-dollar monopoly and sober off the thought of humanity's worst year coming to a close, I lazily sat in bed. Waiting.

I had made it very clear to myself: I wasn't going to sleep until the clock struck past midnight and Cinderella had to go home. (Not that Cindy or anyone else would be outside their homes because of the meteor showers or zombies, though.)

After a few minutes of slumping against the bedframe and letting my eyelids droop, I open my phone.

The screen smiles back sadistically: 12:01 am, December 32nd, 2020.