Want to attend the party of the year? Look no further than my annual pity party! Sponsored by whiskey, depression, and shame spiraling, the party will be held on the floor of a dark dank room with no windows. Mazzy Star is DJing!
Food will be served. Lots and lots of food. We’ll start off with a pint of ice cream because that’s what I’ve been told by the media to eat when I’m depressed. We’ll pass it around taking bites while saying, “Oh my god, so sinful. We’re so bad.” With every thousand calories we consume, we’re supposed to feel a little bit happier. This is what I’ve been taught at least. I mean, I don’t really know. You could just get really fat and become even more depressed. I’M NOT A DOCTOR.
After we’ve polished off the ice cream, we’ll move on to pasta! So much pasta, oh my god. You know what’s great about pasta? It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t tell you that you aren’t good enough and “why can’t you just let me breathe? You’re so clingy!” Instead of sprinkling cheese on top, we’ll break off a bit of Klonopin and mix it in with the noodles. Usually consuming so many carbs would cause us all to have an anxiety attack but by adding our friend Konnie to the recipe, we won’t have a care in the world!
When we’re done finishing off our Klonopin rigatoni dish (imported from Italy and a pharmacy) we’re going to play a game called, “Obsessed With Being Depressed.” The rules go like this: Everyone goes around and talks about how sad they are and then people will try to one up their depression with an even sadder story. In the end, it should be just a bunch of sad people talking about how sad they are but not paying attention to anyone but themselves. That’s the # 1 rule of pity parties: You aren’t allowed to actually listen or care about anyone’s problems. You can pretend to care but empathy should never escape your brain. Take this dialogue as an example:
Pity Partygoer # 1: This one time, my dog died and my BF broke up with me a few hours later.
Pity Partygoer # 2: OMG, that reminds me of the time when I had a debilitating eating disorder for six years. In fact, I think I might relapse tonight. So many triggers!
Pity Partygoer # 3: As someone who’s been raped emotionally and physically BY my dead dog, I have to say that that rigatoni was really good.
The game is over when everyone has sobbed and collectively ignored each other. The night should end with everyone stroking each other’s hair and telling everyone how pretty they are.
Pity Partygoer # 1: You’re so pretty and thin.
Pity Partygoer # 2: I’m so tired of people accusing me of being anorexic!
Pity Partygoer # 3: I don’t think you are.
Pity Partygoer # 2: Thank you! Wait, what? Are you calling me fat?
Everyone leaves the party five pounds heavier and even more depressed. So who wants to come?!