Parties

Just another evening, home alone, time to party. Because, yes: I like parties, I like to have fun. As far as I can see, the only problem with parties is that they’re full of people. Boring people, drunk people, slobbering, dancing, talking people. Parties would be much better without them, don’t you think?

And so I organize parties for myself, what’s wrong with that? First, I get dressed up, a nice suit, no tie, no need to look stuck up. Then I make myself a cocktail. That’s another thing about parties: you go there, sometimes in the cold, sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the snow, sometimes in all of the above, and your only reward is a lukewarm beer in a cheap plastic cup. So it’s not so much a party as provided shelter for the next few hours. A homeless shelter at that, with drunk and annoying people. Okay, this isn’t fair… a homeless shelter would actually have people congregating for the same reason: a warm bed. And I’m sure they’d have interesting stories to tell. Instead, you have to plaster on a smile and answer the same questions over and over again: ‘So, what do you do? How do you like it here?’ Who cares what I do? I didn’t know I was supposed to bring my resume with me. For a while, I just started lying, I was saying: ‘I’m a maze designer.’ Or ‘I skin livestock.’ But I became a victim of my own smart-assness and they asked more questions, wanting to know more. As for the how do I like it here question, well, I walked for thirty minutes in the pouring rain to find a cab, then I spent too much money on said-cab and walked five flights of stairs to get here. Now I’m drinking non-imported beer that’s not even cold. So, in short: I hate it here so much, I want to jump out the window, but me doing so would nullify all the effort I put into getting here. So I’m staying for now, although if you keep talking to me, one of us will end up dying, and it’s not gonna be me.

Surprisingly, people seemed to get a bit offended at that.

So, now: parties just for me. I dress the way I want to dress without hearing people saying I overdressed or underdressed. I don’t need to hear people pretend to like my outfit and, more importantly: I don’t have to look at people silently judging me with a look.  I also get to drink what I want to drink: a Martini, a Scottish single malt or Czech beer. Or all three, who cares? It’s my party!

I know, if I hate going to places so much, why don’t I organize parties at my place? Well, because 1: I am too kind to impose this on the few friends I have left. And 2: those friends would just come over empty-handed and imbibe all the good booze I have stashed, so screw that.

So, dressed the way I want, drinking what I want to drink and, finally, listening to what I want to listen to. 

When I want to listen to it.

Some parties have so-called DJs, who are just people who want to show the guests how cool they are and how edgy their musical tastes are. Or they just have no taste at all and we’re stuck with Celine Dion or Aguilera for most of the night. I’d rather drown in a puddle of poodle-vomit than listen to a Celine Dion song. Not a fan of Aguilera either, but she’s kinda doable, so that’s okay. Kinda.

So, I’m listening to my own songs, dancing if I want to, drinking and sitting if I want to. I do what I want, it’s my party, I’m alone, no one is grabbing my hands forcing me to dance, squealing and thinking that this is exactly what I want to do. Seriously, bitch: if I’m chain-smoking and hanging on to my drink while lodged in the sofa, do you really think it’s because I want to boogy?

I’m dancing around my apartment, smoking as much as I want, without having the need to step on the balcony to be face-to-face with a blizzard, just because smokers are now a notch below rapists in our society’s eyes.

I smoke, I drink too much, I sing along and make a fool of myself, but the only witness is the mirror on my wall.

The reason to have parties is to see people you don’t want to see and work on a hangover for the next day. My parties are better: I get the hangover, but without going through all the idle chit-chat.

And, hey: pressure-wise, meaning women-wise: no problem. I don’t have to feel butterflies in my stomach when I see a beautiful woman. I don’t have to think about what kind of shit I could say to start a conversation, hoping to be clever. I don’t have to see another guy beat me to her and see them exchange phone numbers. I don’t have to watch happy couples kissing and dancing and laughing and talking. No, all of this is spared when I am face to face with my mirror.

Some people might think this is sad, but I tell you: tomorrow you’ll be waking up next to your loved one or next to whomever you picked up the night before, and your head will hurt and you’ll be nauseous and you’ll have to talk with that person over breakfast.

Me, I’ll be nauseous, sure, but I’ll be alone.

All alone.