I swear my mom hates me. No doubt in my mind, she regrets the day I was born. That’s the only logical explanation for why she would drag me to this dreadful Halloween party. This is, no doubt, the worst experience of my life. What is an 18-year-old girl supposed to do at a Halloween party with 20 drunken middle-aged men and women? Eat cocktail weenies until I can’t stand it? Good fun. And what’s worse, my phone thought it would be cool to hold a charge for only two hours, so I can’t even preoccupy myself with a rousing game of Solitaire or any Keyboard Cat videos. Yay, Halloween.

I don’t even know whose house I’m in right now, sprawled out on the couch in a masculine fashion, my feet on their expensive-looking coffee table. But I don’t even care. I even made a point to put my glass directly to the left of the coaster. Directly to the left. Yeah, that’s right. I’m your worst nightmare.
Why my mom even forced me to come here, I have no idea. I wasn’t causing any harm at home; I was simply eating a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and being unproductive on Tumblr. What’s the problem there? This may have been her idea of “bonding”, I’m guessing, even though she’s on the back porch right now, booty dancing to… Bob Dylan? Ugh, she’s too drunk for her own good.
Oh Lord, oh no. There goes Ms. Elaine Grosner in her French maid outfit again. Somebody give me a plastic spoon, I think I’m gonna gouge my eyes out. Ms. Grosner is like… 5 billion years old or something, but she thinks she’s the business. She’s had so much work done that the corners of her mouth are almost connected to her earlobes. I wonder when someone will tell her that she doesn’t look sexy, she looks a hot mess. It won’t be Mr. Campbell, that’s for sure, since his eyes are so focused on Ms. Elaine’s protruding, wrinkly, liver spot- infested cleavage that he doesn’t notice when his drink begins to dribble onto his tacky pirate costume. I hope his wife doesn’t catch him.
Typically, when I’m not having a good time-- or even when I am-- I inhale massive quantities of food, eating until it looks like I’m pregnant. But, wouldja look at that, there is nothing worth eating here. If you were to walk up to the kitchen counter and push all the alcoholic beverages to the side, you would find a small container of hummus, a handful of stale nachos, a little tub of sour cream, wonderfully accented with hints of salsa and shredded cheese, and water chestnuts wrapped in bacon. Whoever decided to wrap those horrible water chestnuts in something as delightful as bacon, I will never know. It’s just depressing. I wonder if my mom would notice if I left and grabbed something from McDon- -
Did Mr. Isaacs just pick his nose, eat his booger, then grab a handful of chips? Are we in kindergarten or something? I’m done here. How does my mom even know these people? And why does everyone here annoy me so badly? I mean, they’re not rude, just freaky. Or am I the freak? Am I the social outcast? Is it strange that I’m sitting here like a civilized person, wearing my raggedy Led Zeppelin shirt and jeans, while everyone else gets ridiculously wasted and jumps off furniture, claiming to be Spider-Man? Am I the one at fault?
No, I can’t be the messed up one, especially since some fat dude just staggered over to a vase and relieved himself in it. If this is what normal and cool is, I don’t want anything to do with it. I’d rather live alone forever with 48 cats than associate myself with these fools.
Oh look, my phone does have enough power to stay on while I watch Keyboard Cat…