I’m hearing the party while going up the stairs. Oh my god, there are so many stairs. They’re playing “Party In The USA” and singing along. “And the Jay-Z song was on…” I’m two hours late obviously. Like I would ever show up at the time they asked on the Facebook invite. Please.
The host answers the door. “HEEEYYYYY YOU GUYS! THANKS FOR COMING! Welcome to my apartment!” She’s drunk already and I’m jealous. I only had time to squeeze in one glass of wine beforehand. Thank God I brought my own bottle of wine. I don’t trust it when they say they’ll have alcohol. You always end up with rum or crappy vodka, which you’ll of course end up drinking out of desperation.
It’s so hot in here. I’m so glad I came with my best friend because even though I do know a lot of people here, I wouldn’t feel secure enough just going by myself, you know? Like these are all people I’m medium friends with so I need a best friend to be there in between conversations.
Okay, everyone here is super cute. Duh. Twentysomethings are usually babes. It’s hard to screw that up. All of the girls are dressed like Rayanne Graff and three of them are Karen Carpenter thin. Some of the boys aren’t chic and look like they’re bike messengers but I would still probably have sex with them. Wait, I think most of the people here are straight. I need a drink.
I drink fast, which is hard to do with wine but I don’t like anything else these days. Someone calls my name and I don’t know who they are. This happens to me on an almost daily basis. It’s not because I don’t think people are worth remembering. I just honestly forget faces. It’s actually rather embarrassing. They’re coming over to talk to me and I am desperately trying to place them. They see my confused expression and remind me who they are and I say “Duh, of course!” We then talk about our connection to one another, which is usually weak and runs out of steam quickly. I tell this person I’m going to get another drink even though I’m clutching a bottle of wine. They don’t question it and we say good-bye.
“Juicy” by The Notorious B.I.G. comes on and I’m on my third glass of wine when I start to wonder if I will find my future boyfriend tonight. “Honey, is that you in the short shorts and polo? Damn, you’re fine in the summertime. I want to have sex with you but the whole thing seems impossible and tiring. You’re probably straight anyway.” I go to my friends who I haven’t seen since the last party I attended and we talk about jobs and the summer heat. I think we all hate talking about these things but we just do it because we feel like we have to, because we need to connect to each other in some way. I look around the room and feel like I’ve seen all of this before. I’ve seen the party dresses, the drunken posture, heard this playlist, the anecdotal jokes, the beer spilling, the apologizes, the drunken laughter. Everyone came here clean and they’re all going to leave dirty.
I like this party because it makes me feel young. It gives me a good excuse to get silly and weird and judge people and kiss people and talk shit. Most parties are the same, most will be like watching a reel of someone else’s life, but there are some that you will never forget and that’s why we keep going to them. We hope that it will be a party where everyone is equal amounts of wasted. We hope we will be kissing someone in the bathroom and having that perfect dance party that will make us feel close to each other. We want someone to be drawing face paint and deciding to leave at six am drunk and giggling. We want our outfits to fall apart to say we had party scars and we want to see someone falling down the stars and being too drunk to get hurt. Every party has the potential to be The Best Party and until it doesn’t, until we lose faith and become disenchanted, we will keep clicking “Attend.”