Funny it’s those passed out by 10 PM and at the gym 6 AM whom accuse the rest of the world of having drinking problems.
[This piece is a revised version of a piece that I read for the Self-Publishers of Chicago’s (SPOC) 3rd Birthday Party]
I have always loved parties from the time my mom bought me a fuchsia, glittery, poofy, chiffon dress when I was three for my dad’s ordination; to my piñata-filled, strawberry shortcake birthdays; to spending summer days in the coolness of a disco-lit roller rink.
In high school, I went to a total of 2 parties and they mostly revolved around a heroin addict named Mick in whom I had displaced an unnecessary amount of affection. I met Mick at the first party; his allure was a combination of Mexican Billy Idol chic and the detached attitude of a habitual drug user. For the second party of my high school career, I had somehow managed to get invited to a popular girl’s house, whose parents were, of course, out of…
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