Trapped In The Closet -- The R. Kelly-est Night Of My Life
This is, unfortunately, a true story. It happened to me two night ago during a seemingly uneventful house party I went to. I literally became trapped in a makeshift broom closet while two people I don't know had a screaming match in the bedroom on the other side of the closet door.
Basically, what happened is this: my dear friend Cameron had a party on Friday night at his house, which is being renovated. They're adding an entire second storey, but it's almost finished, so I guess he figured it wasn't a matter of public safety. At one point, my curiosity got the better of me and I wandered upstairs to check out the new addition. About three seconds after I'd snuck into the bedroom, two very loud people started yelling their heads off outside the door. The second I realised they were coming into the bedroom to have it out, I jumped into the tiny-ass closet so as not to disturb them. I have no idea where that logic came from, but okay. And so began my harrowing adventure in the closet which, unfortunately, didn't end in me finding Narnia.
Wha follows was originally meant to be a series of Tweets that captured my experience in the broom closet and informed the masses, but alas, no 3G coverage. Instead I saved them as text messages in the hopes that they would explain the situation when someone eventually recovered my body. Here they are today, completely unedited (except where stated) and in their original condition. Learn from my mistakes, people.
This closet is tiny. Like, TINY. Me + broom and dustpan = too many people.
Lady Yeller has an incredibly irritating voice. I'm pretty sure she was the chick I was talking to before who tried to convince me that Matthew Broderick was in Wall Street.
Man Yeller's name is Mark. No word on Lady Yeller's real name.
Maybe Mark doesn't know her real name. Maybe that's what they're fighting about.
Why hasn't anybody come looking for me? I've been here for like half an hour. Where do they think I am?
My knees are starting to hurt from sitting like this. Want to move, but am scared of making noise.
They've gone really quiet now. Still arguing I think, no longer yelling.
Can no longer call them Yelling Man and Yelling Lady if they're no longer yelling. His name is Mark, but what's hers?
I'm gonna call her Greta, as in "I reGRETA getting into this fucking cupboard.' See, I'm trapped, but I can still be witty.
I wish the delete button wasn't so close to the enter button on this thing. I keep erasing my damn words.
This is sorta like that epiosde in friends where Ross and Rachel fight and they all hide in the bedroom eating leg wax. I have no leg wax, and no Chandler.
Oh, fuck. I have to pee. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Why is there a broom closet in here anyway? It's supposed to be a bedroom. This is going to bug me.
The house is being renovated, so I guess it's a temporary thing. The only thing in the bedroom is a bed, so it must all be new.
I miss Greta and Mark's yelling. At least I could hear the yelling over the music downstairs. All I hear now is mumbling and my inner voice begging me to find a toilet.
People are starting to notice I'm missing now. Someone just called me, only I didn't answer because I FUCKING CAN'T!
I've shifted my foot under my vag to stop the sensation of needing to pee. It's working.
It's not working. Why did I drink all that wine? Really wasn't necessary; I'm not on fucking Cougar Town.
Ha! No freedom, but I can still come up with witty pop-culture references.
Segue: Marie (edit: a friend of mine) told me the other day that I'm weird for punctuating my messages correctly. I sent her a text containing a semicolon that did not denote 'winky eyes.' I told her I'm a journalist in training.
Who am I talking to? My phone? Is this the crazy setting in?
Just had the brilliant idea to Facebook my predicament in the hopes that one of my friends will be antisocial enough ot be on Facebook in the middle of the party. Still no reception.
Argument update: Greta thinks Mark doesn't respect her. She keeps whining, "You don't respect me, Mark!"
His name might actually be Marcus.
Seriously, shut up. Get over your shit and go downstairs, you killjoy downers.
Not sure I want them to make up. What if they have make-up sex in here? Please, Mark and Greta. Do not have sex in here.
I am never going to speak to these two again. I will ignore them from the rest of the party. And THEIR LIVES.
Why won't my SOS texts sent?!! Why won't my loved ones' calls come through?!! Lost all reception, that's why.
It's so quiet now. Please don't me making out. Please do not let the making out lead to party fucking.
At least Tom Hanks had a volleyball to talk to on that Castaway island. I can't make a sound, not even for sporting goods. Not that I have any. Just a broom.
They're yelling again, but oh fuck oh my God they tore the handle off the door!!! I'm half convinced I'm dreaming this. This can't be real. What shoddy constructmanship. Holy hell, I need to pee.
Is constructmanship a word? It should be.
Yell for help, you morons! Stop yelling at each other!
I think this might be why Cam (edit: the guy whose house it is) told us not to go upstairs.
Pretty sure door handles only come off like this in cartoons. I didn't even realise stuff like this happens in real life.
How am I going to resolve this toilet situation? I cannot pee my pants at a party. I am at a loss.
Part of me wants to get out of this cupboard and just be done with it, but how do I explain this situation? As stupid as Mark and Greta are, I don't want them to think I can't handle socially-awkward situations.
I guess I can't, though. This experience has taught me that much about myself.
I've been in here exactly 90 mins. When (if?) I get out, I'm going to kill everything Mark and Greta hold dear.
They're yelling for help! Thank you, sweet Jesus! I hope someone downstairs can hear them over the music.
No one's coming. Maybe people think it's still argument yelling.
Mark just said he was going to call somebody. Please let them get some bloody reception.
Yay! Rescue is imminent! I figure I'll wait like 2 mins after they leave, and make sure they're not in the hallway.
Out of the cupboard! 98 mins later! Woohoo!
Fuckers shut the handle-less door behind them. Goddamnit.
So that was my almost two hours in the closet. My knees were so sore afterwards from sitting cross-legged for a hundred minutes. You should also know that, for the rest of the party, Greta (whose name turned out to be Danielle, but I prefer to think of her as the former) went on an on to anyone who'd listen about her traumatic experience being trapped in the bedroom for "oh my god, like fifteen minutes!" even though it was actually only ten, and fuck that bitch to hell.
Honestly, though, if you ever, EVER, find yourself in this situation, just excuse yourself politely and get the ever-loving bejeezus out of there. Fun Friends shenanigans don't happen in real life. I repeat -- hiding in the closet is never the best option. I'm still super relieved that there was no make-up sex, though.