So I went to this party sober…
Climbing the steps to get in was such a hassle. It was as if the saddest-looking people were forming a conga line of despair with the express intention of disallowing me from entering.
(Side note: It is genuinely amazing that people can live 18 years and longer without discovering deodorant.)
I often play a game at parties where I pretend to be a snake and slither through the dance floor while making as little human contact as possible, but my game must have been a little off, because I ended up covered in sweat – and not all my own.
I am reminded at every party of Sartre’s “No Exit”: Hell is other people, regardless of how many shots you’ve had, and there’s something scary and chaotic about parties.
All the alcohol awakens something bizarre in everybody: unprovoked friendliness.
Vodka renders all social cues meaningless and drunk people unable to shut up. I was trapped in uncomfortable conversations five or six times, unable to decide if I should nicely try to end the conversation or just take the L and sneak away while everyone was distracted.
I descended the staircase and slid through the anguished conga line to step outside, away from the noise and the heat. I shared my last cigarette with a few people, but someone just took it and ran off. It wasn’t expensive, but I’m still a little sad.
I gave up on the party and went home to wait for inevitable texts from drunk friends seeking a ride, the latest of which arrived at 4 a.m.
Moral of the story? Party Girl ain’t Party Girl when she’s sober.
Until next time,
XOXO Party Girl