I'm either going to be in a bungalow in the South Pacific with the lover of my dreams, a bottle of wine, a big bright starry sky, and the whole future spreading out before me like a sweet dream as I enter my twenty-fifth year on Earth, and the first year of the millennium...

Or huddled in my basement apartment in DC, looking for candle stubs, hoarding melting ice, congratulating myself on having the foresight to stockpile matches, contemplating the canned delicacies available to me, rationing out absorbent paper for bathroom use, and wondering how long it will be until the rioting and looting begin, and wondering when my perfect lover is coming back with whatever booze he can find so we can make a little hay before the shooting begins...

Or crammed in to my mother's house with my overdressed, extended family (whom I love anyway), pondering the odds of my perfect lover walking in the door (very slim), eating fattening food, drinking too much champagne (I love it until it makes me very sick, which it inevitably does), trying to remember hte words to Auld Lang Syne and failing, and having every child under the age of ten demanding my attention constantly while we all wait for Dick Clark to sprout a grey hair...

Anybody got a bungalow in paradise or a really awesome man they want to lend me?