"So what're you doing tonight?" asked my new co-worker, Sean.
"Probably nothing," I replied, glancing miserably at the clock. It was around eleven. I'd been awake roughly two hours, and was still 90 percent asleep. "Probably go home after work and take a nap and go see a movie."
"Aw, come on," said Sean. "You can do better than that. You should have a party for me, for my birthday!"
"Oh! Is it your birthday today?"
"Well... no."
"When's your birthday?"
"July. But I should still have a birthday party."
And so I threw Sean a birthday party.
It's nearly five in the morning. There are beer bottles and cigarette butts all over my apartment. My cat has something sticky in her fur. I have on mellow music, which I've had on repeat since the landlord's assistant came upstairs and told me to break up the party immediately. Naturally, I couldn't do THAT, so I figured I'd chill everybody out, which might be acceptable. Naturally, that didn't work, but it was a lot better than when somebody turned on my copy of the Run Lola Run soundtrack at top volume and everyone began dancing and yelling things about pot.
I personally am in a rather shabby state at this moment. I'm not sure which is worse off -- my beer-stained apartment, or my body. I'm clothed in stained jeans (I don't remember them being stained this morning), and my hands are shaking violently. I've been told half a dozen times that Bailey's is better when drunk WITHOUT coffee, but of course I couldn't listen. And so my body is exhausted, but my brain is twitching uncontrollably. And my stomach hurts.
I'm pretty sure that's a sign it was a good party.
I've not hosted a party since 1997, after which I swore I'd never have a party again. There wasn't even any alcohol at that party, for gahd's sake! Still, several fights erupted; Rachel had a mental breakdown because the guy she was in love with was present with his girlfriend; Erich began making out with somebody in the kitchen; somebody else got pissed off because he finally realized I wasn't in love with him, though I'd been trying to tell him I wasn't interested in him for quite awhile; Nathan, who was vegetarian, decided to demonstrate "How to Deep-Throat a Piece of Pot Roast in Three Easy Lessons." And David told Peter he was going to push him into a bonfire, which was a lot funnier and a lot more atrociously wicked then than in this journal.
All in all, a good time was had by all, but you cannot imagine the drama it all caused. Lives were ruined that night. I swore I'd never host another party.
I lied.
I don't think a LOT of drama happened this evening, although I could be mistaken. Certainly no one ended up with third-degree burns, which is a good sign. No one was arrested, and -- WHEE! -- everyone was pleasantly intoxicated, but NO ONE THREW UP! Sean, for his birthday party, celebrating his birthday in July, received a toy survival kit, with a tool belt, a flashlight, a water bottle (immediatly filled with Heineken), and a plastic shovel. He also received -- from Nathan -- a card of the Mad Hatter, and -- from me, because I relish opportunity to be tacky -- a singing plastic wall-mount of a Lobster. It sings "Doo-wah-diddy."
(Obviously, the party was BYOB, because I would not have a party in which I personally subjected my guests to Heineken. But I'm a snob, what can I say? "Heineken? FUCK that shit! PABST BLUE RIBBON!" --Frank Booth, Blue Velvet)
All in all, everything went well. If I live until tomorrow, I'll write more about all of it. If I don't, let it be known that I died of coffee-and-Bailey's overdosage, which would be incredibly appropriate. I'm pretty sure I'll be okay. I'm glad I'm not working tomorrow.
David Duchovny is still stuck to my computer. He's grinning.
I'm going to go to bed now.
Love,
~Helena the party animal*
"There is nothing better than getting gold stuck between your teeth." --Nathan, drinking Goldshlagger.