The winter night is falling fast as the door opens before you to reveal a man, twenty-seven, drying his hands on his apron that reads, "the problem with the world is that everyone's a few drinks behind."  A floppy chef's hat covers his wavy hair, and he breaks into a smile as he sees you.  
    "Welcome!  Come in! The dinner is just getting started!"
    You doff you coat and come in to meet the other guests.  This, you know, is not just another dinner party.  That tall funny-looking guy who greeted you (i.e. the precarious author of this story) has brought you here to dine on stories from the year just gone.  And as the cold night air quickly becomes only a memory, you are handed your first drink.

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