And when the fly is drawn to my calm presence I pluck it out of the air with my chopsticks
I am not much for parties without some sort of 'activity.'
I tend to have very little interest in what others have to say and lack the peculiar wiring between one's liver and brain that facilitates the mistaking of a slight buzz for sudden rapport with complete strangers. Indeed, the highlight of the evening for me was Y.'s fiancée ripping her coat from my body and leaving the party in a huff after the entire room agreed that the knee-length fur-lined jacket looked far more fetching on my leanly muscled frame. Pimp-stylin' aside, the only way I can seem to enjoy such gatherings is to escape the din and claustrophobia of the party proper (such as by retreating into the basement with an elitist clique of friends) and find some shared focus of our derision. In this case, the object of group ridicule took the form of a previously unmet cousin of H. This tragically hip fellow with his blond afro, chin fuzz and narrowly resisted urge to wear sandals to a late night indoor party was the type to drop references to the Harvard Review into the middle of scatological tales frequently interrupted by his own laughter. Also tragically named, 'Blaise' had the misfortune to have worn a pair of loose-fitting khakis featuring a dime-sized brown incrustation nestled low and dead-center between his ass cheeks. Much of the party was spent speculating on the nature of his suspect spot, but even more was spent making humor at the expense of the eternally oblivious 'Blaise.'
Nothing quite brings the antisocial together like a sacrificial butt for our jokes.
I tend to have very little interest in what others have to say and lack the peculiar wiring between one's liver and brain that facilitates the mistaking of a slight buzz for sudden rapport with complete strangers. Indeed, the highlight of the evening for me was Y.'s fiancée ripping her coat from my body and leaving the party in a huff after the entire room agreed that the knee-length fur-lined jacket looked far more fetching on my leanly muscled frame. Pimp-stylin' aside, the only way I can seem to enjoy such gatherings is to escape the din and claustrophobia of the party proper (such as by retreating into the basement with an elitist clique of friends) and find some shared focus of our derision. In this case, the object of group ridicule took the form of a previously unmet cousin of H. This tragically hip fellow with his blond afro, chin fuzz and narrowly resisted urge to wear sandals to a late night indoor party was the type to drop references to the Harvard Review into the middle of scatological tales frequently interrupted by his own laughter. Also tragically named, 'Blaise' had the misfortune to have worn a pair of loose-fitting khakis featuring a dime-sized brown incrustation nestled low and dead-center between his ass cheeks. Much of the party was spent speculating on the nature of his suspect spot, but even more was spent making humor at the expense of the eternally oblivious 'Blaise.'
Nothing quite brings the antisocial together like a sacrificial butt for our jokes.