My party was a fucking disaster.

And about halfway through the nightmare, it hit me. You didn’t mean to throw a REAL party. Oh christ. Turns out that it was too late to kick everyone out, or so my partner kept telling me.

Not one idiot I invited managed to follow even one of my carefully worded potluck instructions so we had 17 bags of chips and ran out of drinks within the first ten minutes. I’m a reasonable person. Drink the decoy beer and we are good. Dig around to the back where my good shit is kept and we are throwing down!

A few band aids and some CPR later, I attempted to do my duty as a host. Only I’ve never really gone to a party. I had only dim recollections of hiding by the buffet at a high school dance. I don’t think they had hosts, more like chaperones. But it’s all I had to go on, so I went around yelling at people to refrain from any public displays of affection. This was easy, because everyone was just hiding at the buffet and trying not to make eye contact with anything except the cat and dog.

Worse, I think everyone was just making up letter combinations when I asked them what MyersBriggsTruckFuckPsychoType they were: YTMJ, BFFF and HELP. I’m just as guilty. I mean, who has the patience and attention span to complete that survey?

Next time, a warning would be nice, Sherry Caris!

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Good news is it wasn’t a complete disaster. I did finally manage to get everyone to leave. I just had to channel the right energy. And I have lots of chips now.