By Charlotte Goodsir

Let me see. Alas, poor Twenty Fifteen I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest; of more plot twists than Game of Thrones. He hath told me mine Anaconda want not a thousand times and now how abhorred in my imagination it is, my Hotline Bling! The Force Awakens it. Here hung those Kylie Jenner lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. —Where be your hate of Beiber now he releases such bangerz? Your songs of TayTay? Your Whip and Nae Nae? Your white boy ability to rap every song from Straight Outta Compton? Not One Direction now but two; Zayn left the other four? Quite chapfallen? Now get you to my Trap Queen and tell her, let her Uptown Funk Me Up, to this favour she must tell Miley, What’s Good? Make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Is 2016 to be the best year yet? To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to Laugh Alone with Salad, to Twerk and Bikram ‘til Burning Thighs, or to take arms against a sea of Vegans, and by opposing end them? To Netflix and Chill: to sleep; and no more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache of an Unmatched Super Like and the thousand Natural Awkward Sexual Tensions that flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d. For one’s dress may black and blue or white and gold, and inevitably overshadowed by a Saint West. True love died when Kermit and Miss Piggy broke up, yet was successfully resuscitated when JB and Selena got back together. It’s time to say Bye Felicia to 2015 and Hello from the other side to 2016. Never before have I gone into a year where my computer screen is brighter than my future. Let four captains bear 2015, like a soldier to the stage, for I have had no bad haircuts that I want to erase from facebook and everyone’s memory. Happy New Year bitches, May you be healthy and not haunted by a ghost to avenge someone.

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