My roomates and I threw a party in the spirit of a Junior High Cotillion. Melanie decorated the walls with blue paper and gold stars and artistically stylized our ceiling with strategically placed crepe paper streamers. Chris and I moved all of our furniture out of the living room to make room for a huge dance floor. A disco ball, colored light bulbs, and a giant bowl of punch (spiked of course - sixth graders get more and more corrupt each year. Damn you MTV!) completed the transformation of our apartment from humble abode to pre-pubescent dance hangout.
Because it was a cotillion, everyone was supposed to dress nicely. I was only going to wear a shirt and tie, but then I found my snazzy three-piece suit from when I was a Manhattan power-broker. (Okay, I was bitch-boy for the power-brokers, but I was so close to real power I could taste it!) Anyway, I looked gooood.
- Kat looking radiate in a slinky dress and platinum wig
- Lauren looking hot with a sexy hair-do and an outfit that can only be described as an 80's version of the poodle skirt
- I danced! (slow AND fast)
- Chris getting called Egon by a drunk, yet perceptive, young girl
- A moment with Kat too cool for words...
Not So Highlights:
- A *single* girl barfing on *two* of our couches
- Her friend asking me for a clean towel to wrap around barfing girl's head because "she's really vain and if she smells the vomit in her hair she'll get upset"
- A big, burly drunk guy who held court in the kitchen and managed to give random partiers five beers from my six-pack.
- A large group of Swedes
The aforementioned Swedes were men on a mission. The mission: score with an American chick. These guys were relentless in their pursuit. Let me explicate:
I'm sitting with, and conversing with Becky, when a small Swede comes up and interrupts us.
Swede: (to Becky) You want a beer?
Becky: Umm, okay.
Becky: What was I saying?
Me: You were saying how--
[Swede enters with Becky's beer]
Becky: Oh, thanks.
[I stare a hole into the Swede, but this seems only to embolden him]
Swede: (to Becky) You want to go outside to get some air?
The balls on this kid were admirable. Relentless they were. (The Swedes, not the kid's balls)
Anyway, the party was cool for a few hours. Guys were looking sharp, girls were looking beautiful and all were dancing and having a good time.
Cut to a few hours later:
The punch bowl is empty. People are drunk. A number of not-at-all-dressed-for-the-occasion fucktards show up. It's late and I just want to go to bed. I eventually do.
I slept all...day....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
I was driving in my car and I was thinking about a lot of things - chiefly, what the fuck am I going to do when my unemployment benefits run out? (I can't even pay my bills as it is) Then I started thinking about how fast time is flying and I started to fear that it was passing me by. This thought process continued on and on and on until finally I was trying to find meaning in life and suddenly it felt like the entire weight of the world was pressing down on me and I momentarily considered simply swerving into the oncoming traffic on 19th Ave...
Scary stuff. I rarely get depressed and when I do it's typically mild and over something so stupid that I get over it very quickly, but this...this was somehow different.
I turned on the radio and that Tracy Chapman song, "Fast Car" came on. I love that song. There's a line in it that says, "...so take your fast car and keep on driving" and so tomorrow I'm going to do just that.
I'm going to get in my car and drive somewhere. (Fast, yes, but within the speed limit because I can't get another speeding ticket for another 18 months. Drat.)
I don't know where I'm going or when I'll be back, but I just have to get far away from here.