Having left my yoga-coma only to realize that what I'm wearing is suggestive of mental illness, I'm following directions on How To Make A Dinner printed on the back of a jar of curry (had to get detailed reminders from 2 people on how to make rice) while alone in the house blasting the local R&B and Old Skool station. Later, I'll walk to a party and hope that accumulated sips of other people's drinks will create a slight buzz. I will desperately search the room for some chatchky or houseplant to make disparaging remarks about in hopes that a better conversation will follow or that a younger girl will make a scene and alleviate the need for conversation. This is about as much excitement as I can stand, or afford on my paycheck.
This blurb was going to be a Facebook "status update" and the last sentence was going to be "See ya then!" but it was too long. I have pasted it here, against better judgment, to give you, gentle reader, a glimpse into an oft-repeated scene in the gradual encroachment of The Late 20s onto an unprepared host.
