homebody.

I’m beginning to become increasingly aware that I have aged terribly inside my own body. I used to be so up for parties and getting drunk and the seeming possibility that cruising around Safeway stoned off your tits looking for a funny Christmas card in the middle of July is probably the awesomest thing to do ever… but the truth is that suddenly I’ve become aware how meaningless and somewhat banal it all really is. And I’ve suddenly grown this horrible, deep hatred for parties. More specifically, house parties. And I only became aware of this tonight, sitting at home scouring YouTube when I could be at an actual party (but didn’t want to morningsickness all over the birthday girl, so I passed) and realised that I was almost glad that I had a reason not to go. Not because I dislike my friends or I’m becoming straight edge or even that I think I’m superior, (I am, but we won’t dwell on that) I just genuinely don’t see the point anymore. At least before when I didn’t see the point I still had fun. Now I just sit in a corner with the least drunk person there and am sadly, humiliated by all the great, intelligent people I know being drunk arseholes. This is coming off slightly wrong and shouldn’t be written off as the ramblings of a righteous pregnant woman. I thought these things even when I had a G & T in my hand and was slightly tipsy. I think parties are better off slightly tipsy than with rampaging drunks; people are sozzled enough to think the party is greater than it actually is, guests are slightly more attractive, you’re willing to tell people what you really think without being obnoxious and rude, and you’re far less likely to say, walk into a fire or think that you’re the life of the party when everyone really just wishes you’d either pass out or burn in the fire you walked into. The inspiration for said fire incident may be when I reached the pinnacle of bad house party experience a few months ago, and my then-boyfriend thought it’d be a swell idea to jump on a fire that had already exploded concrete twice, one time which burned my back horribly. To his credit, he is a lovely and charismatic character, but its always a shame when someone is so far gone that they can’t realise that everyone else might not be enjoying them as much as they are themselves, and trying to calm down individuals like this always causes an unfortunate scene which leaves the sober infuriated and the drunken feeling like, “Shit man, why is everyone trying to ruin my FUCKING GOOD TIME?!” I know this because I have been the arsehole having a fucking good time but embarrassing myself horribly. I wish someone had taken the time to ask me, “Do you really want to drink that cocktail shaker full of straight vodka on top of your previous conquests?” or “Are you sure photos of you gyrating with your female friends on a table for some bogan losers isn’t going to be a sore spot later?” because as much as I might have still made the choice to have done it, at least I might have thought to myself, “Wait, everyone thinks I’m an arsehole.” And really, in retrospect, you don’t want that. My decision to go straight edge some months ago was fueled by a revelation such as this; that I was noticing how horrified I was by behaviour of others, and then with some further horror realised that it was mostly because I could see myself doing it and being totally unaware of how obnoxious I would have been. And if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s definitely obnoxious. Who wants to wake up in their thirties and not be proud of any social interactions, or more horribly, not even remember them? It was only by the weakness of my own desires and a gift box of 5 flavours of Absolut vodka that made me cave, and I’ll admit, I drank them in my house in the safety of my bed watching ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’ like a total loser. But that’s my bed and my dank room and thank God nobody was there to witness it. I figure, if I find getting drunk in my room alone a loser thing to do, then it’s no cooler to do it surrounded by your friends and about 100 strangers. Fuck, who needs the judgment? I’ve done enough in my sober life to warrant the stink eye from people, I sure as shit don’t want it for things I can’t remember doing and have no explanation for. So as much as I’ve begun to feel my age (and I’m sure people blame the fact that I’ve had kids, and frankly I couldn’t give two shits) and I feel somewhat like an old maid for preferring a night in bed with a bucket of Triple Dutch Chocolate Sara Lee ice cream, I’m glad that I’ve moved on from feeling trapped in “Mother Hell” and wishing for nights out on the town, because really, everything I need is right here. I still love the company of my friends, but I’d much rather get drunkish in a bar where I know its time to stop when the bartender kicks me out the door, and I don’t have to clean up blood and beer cans with the host the morning after.

End rant. Pregnant lady is gonna have some dairy and go watch sarcastic Jews in her nest. Enjoy your night of blood and cans and exploding fires, my loves. I’m in homebody heaven.

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