Contrary to the title of this blog there will be no procuring or learning of information concerning the enigmatic quandary that is socializing. Did I really need to use so many big words in that sentence? In fact, I will be just bitching about it. The nuances of social interaction are as abundant as the amount of movie critics that hate Paul Walker. So here I go…
Setting, house party. Time, late evening. Present company, blows. As I look around I realize not only do I not care about these people, but I don’t care to know them either. I’m getting ahead of myself though, let me start from the beginning (of the story and a precursor as well)
I had my party years. I drank, I bar hopped, I fucking woke up in random places with a feeling in my mouth similar to that of eating salt and I have to say that it’s behind me. Where does the line get drawn? Do I really want to be 30 years old one day and still perceive the word “drink” as a social activity and not merely an action on par with eat and walk? No, I don’t, and subsequently I have become a boring college student. I watch movies, I play guitar and I……study for class(?) but now I’m estranged from my friends in that they always want to go drinking. So I compromise. I go to parties and don’t drink much. And let me tell you, being sober in a room of drunk people is like watching devolution. You can actually hear them getting dumber. So on to the evening…
I walk into the house semi-early and fortunately only my friend and other mutual acquaintances were present. It could have stopped there and I would have been profoundly satisfied, but there were kegs at this party and ‘if you tap it, they will come’. Guys attract to kegs faster than Hugh Grant to hookers. So the transitive friend property comes into play and all of the sudden you have a complete fuck-shopped social tree of “I know you through so and so” and obviously this distant acquaintance has an entourage the size of Gorbachev’s birthmark (http://www.griffith-h.schools.nsw.edu.au/gorbachev.jpg).
Now comes, in my opinion, the bête noire of party correspondence: small talk. I hate small talk. I hate small talk more than I hate the fuckers at Bed, Bath and Beyond, who send me so much junk mail I could erect a paper mâché Statue of Liberty with it. Where are we really going with this? Will this really bud into a life-long friendship, because honestly, I have enough friends already and safe to say you’d get the short end of my attention stick. Let’s go through the Gainesville trite, cliché conversation:
-So who do you know at the party?
-John, he and my roommate dated.
-Cool, so what’s your major?
-Philosophy with a minor in blah blah you?
-Leisure studies. What year are you?
-9th. I changed majors a lot, otherwise I would have graduated early. I got a 1710 on my SAT coming out of high school and I came in with 72 credits. I’m really smart, as you can tell by what I just told you.
-That’s awesome. Yeah, I played high school football and wanted to play college, but I decided not to in the end. I used to work out all the time and was in amazing shape. I’m gonna start lifting again in a week or two, so it’s no big deal. Now I’m just….
-Oh sorry, I gotta go talk to my friend. She’s so upset and crying about this guy. It was nice talking to you (walks away with no clear destination)
-You too. Maybe later you can umm alright yeah good luck
And onto next trivial conversation. Why do I even bother talking? And it only gets worse the more they drink. I could have a better conversation with a goddamn Furbie (http://www.ciao.co.uk/Furbies__Review_5391941). At least with those hairy bitches I know where I stand at all times, and if they piss me off I’ll snatch out their double A batteries faster than you can say Mogwai (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mogwai).
Let’s not leave out the drama in these circumstances. Between guys cockblocking each other, girls getting over dramatic, and everyone getting drunk there’s bound to be drama. For instance, this evening drama found me. I was in my friend’s room at the party house when a friend of mine grabbed her purse, to which I asked why she needed it, there’s nothing to buy at the party. Apparently, in Ethanol Land, that is a cryptogrammic way of saying “you need to pay for sex”. Needless to say I was more than dumbfounded to find out later via word of mouth what I had apparently said. Oh, and the shit-kicker is this is the same girl I was talking about in my last blog, so safe to say I have a better chance of re-establishing the ‘world is flat’ theory than nurturing that relationship.
So here I am, surrounded by people I don’t know, at a party with too many drunks, telling people they must purchase sex, and myself sober as a nun. I felt more out of place than George Bush in a library. What comes next? The awkward train. You know what I’m talking about, you’re at a party with 2 other people you know and of course they need to travel to all fucking ends of the party as if there was a prize for winning the obstacle course, and you just end up following the person in front of you hoping one of these drunk fuckers doesn’t have an epileptic elbow seizure and smack your drink into your new shirt.
Finally the awkward train lands at its destination and I realize ‘I want to leave this party’ and begin the long journey out. I am actually relieved to be leaving this, and though it was nice to see some of my friends I am reminded of why I don’t drink often, and I walk out sadly thankful that it’s with my shoulders straight.
