The weirdest party of my life (and I only go to weird parties). We are the not-drunk boyfriend, the friend-of-a-friend, the PTSD-war-veteran, the adderol-ridden-hostess, the stoned-mom, the dramatic-one, and the disordered-hypochondriac-complainer. I won’t tell you which I am, but I will tell you I have chronic headaches, a jaw disorder, and have been on three courses of antibiotics in the last three months. Don’t get me started on the state of health care in this country.
Chocolate fondue. Catchphrase. Candles melting on the stove. What the fuck is this song? Another depressing conversation-stopper from the PTSD-war-veteran. Seconds of silence. More Catchphrase. A joke, sort of. We’re all laughing and I realize my party-laugh is out of tune from disuse. Out of practice. But we’ve already established that this is not a party.
It doesn’t matter. Five phones on the table. My eyes are closing but it’s not even nine o’clock! Dip a pretzel, turn the wrist, sweet syrupy drips on the tablecloth. I miss my boyfriend but in a good way. Finally.
Dizzy is okay with this crowd, I am alright. Hugs pleasantries shoes let’s go. Into the go-kart. Down San Pablo, running on empty. One bar left in the cell phone.
Bye! I will, thanks yes I love you see you soon. Don’t hit any cars while attempting to enable speakerphone. Familiar voice in my lap. Turn right, turn right, turn left and right again. Lights. Speed. I am dizzy tired and disordered. But tonight I am alright.