04.Nov.2003
no. she hasn't vanished.
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what not to do when you're an angsty twentysomething generation y-er at a halloween party
Halloween fills me with magic and delight, much like a stiff swig of Jack Daniels on an empty stomach. I entered the evening with the hopes it would be, in fact, a dark and silly night. However, as I've stated numerously throughout the confines of my Darko-stained web-domain, harboring high expectations ineluctably results in the irrevocable smashing of aforementioned hopes.
Since Terry, a former roommate and chronic sufferer of Multiple Personality Disorder, moved to Texas last July, Dee has replaced him with Dion, a caramel Industrialite who carries on a love affair with Massive Attack behind closed doors. Dion knows a bushel of extremely elitist, pompous scumbags, and found it in his best interest to invite each and every goddamn one of them to the Halloween party I attended.
I was expecting a night of drunken, risible antics betwixt good Oklahoma-bound cronies, but was instead greeted with a pseudo-intellectual gallimaufry of pricks.
Among them, but not accredited as prickish, was Amon, someone I met briefly in March. Amon remembered me immediately and crossed the room to address me. We spoke quickly. He asked how I was, what I had been up to, how my life was turning out, complimented my costume, and dove straight for the beer.
I purchased for myself a bottle of Jack Daniels, which was the worst idea I'd ever entertained. Jack Daniels should be reserved for those evenings when you're sitting comfortably at home alone, feeling vaguely and poetically suicidal, not for parties infected with pretentious prats.
These boys, of course, loved my Jack Daniels, and all of them asked for shots. I told them one round on the house.
When I introduced myself to them, I said, "I don't believe I've met you guys before." to which most of them responded, "That's right, you haven't." and sauntered off.
At one point during the night, I crept up behind Dee, the second whitest black man in all of Oklahoma, and said in a tiny voice into his tiny ear, "Dee, you know I love you, but your party is turning out to be high school ..."
"I know, 'Chelle," he responded, "and I'm about to kick these guys out of here."
The night wore on; the boys became belligerent. One of them even grossly resembles an ex of sorts, replete with holier-than-thou demeanor firmly in place.
As the night grew on, most of my Jack consumed, I stood up on the couch and proceeded to lecture all of them on proper party etiquette and responded to their dashing ambivalence with equally dashing disdain.
I then, in all things Duck-like, endeavored to become one with the CD shelf, back-first. Thick heels + Jack Daniels + holiday disappointment + empty stomach = severely impaired motor skills.
I stumbled into Dee's bedroom to sit down and sober up. Some guy evidently named Brandon followed me and, according to three witnesses, attempted to hit on me. He was dressed as a multi-colored Santa Claus. According to Dee, Amon and Petri, when he made a move, so to speak, I shoved him far away from me and proclaimed, "Please get the fucking hell away from me, you ecstasy-colored Santa reject and fuck off!"
I have no idea what ecstasy-colored Santa reject means.
I spent the remainder of the evening sobering up and listening to Massive Attack, courtesy of Dion, whilst simultaneously smoking as many cigarettes as possible, and delving into the universe of World's Most Cynically Talkative Drunk.
The prats vanished. The others applauded.
When I awoke several hours later, everyone extolled my silly inebriation. I drank bottle of water upon bottle of water and said, "Please just keep the Jack. I never want to see it again."
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When I returned home, I stripped, showered, gathered laundry, and napped. Before stepping out of the car, Dion said, while shaking my hand properly, "Come over more!"
A few phone-calls and several hours later, Tony stopped by to briefly discuss the end of our torrid affair, a mutual decision between us. He apologized for any inconveniences made, and we split ways on relatively friendly terms. I told him I didn't think a relationship between the two of us would ever be possible. He responded, "I wouldn't say that."
I wished him luck, and he stated he truly wanted to stay in contact with me, and listed off his schedule for the coming week. I told him it wasn't necessary. He gave me a look that immediately elicited a "You are so fucking cute." response from me.
It was the most harmonious split I had ever encountered.
I am, of course, disappointed in the outcome, as I already miss the biting. However, it was the most logical decision to be made at this time.
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It continually dawns on me you, strange readers, don't really know any of the people I mention. I still refuse, however, to create a "cast" page. If there's any confusion, you can simply ask.
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My painting will arrive soon. I am excited about this.
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From the events of Halloween night, and each night subsequently following, I am forced to write my infamous letter.
Dear Brandon, Zach, Levi, Josh, Kevin, William, Willis, Amon, Dion, Dee, Brittany, Petri, Nicole, and myself,
My God, we are all fucking drunken idiots.
Love,
'Slavie
PS: Please send me Bayer and tall, brown-eyed boys with tongue-rings, thanks.
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time & machine