We're going to party like it's 1999

It’s my party and I’ll cry/fall/vomit/punch/dry hump/laugh/yell/and cry some more if I want to. Ahh, memories. My going away party, hosted by my glorious yet anal retentive friend Brittany, was originally supposed to be held in her small yet chic apartment downtown but ended up being transferred to Barrett’s house due to space issues. I didn’t think many people would come, but it turns out I have more friends than I thought. Or people wanted free food and booze. My bet’s on the latter. Additionally, ribs were the featured entrée, and Brittany didn’t trust me to not get drunk and finger paint her newly painted apartment walls with barbeque sauce. I may scoff at this, but truth be told, I’m a klutz normally; add Jagermeister to the mix and I have to be watched like a toddler who is just learning to walk for the first time. On a personal note to you, Brit, my spilled drink count was only 3, so you can suck on that. And the only finger painting I did was on your pants, and that was just out of spite. But still, I love you. Thank you for my party; I will be an empty shell without you this year, you skanky beast.
The party was almost 100% entirely awesome. It seems fitting right now that I’m listening to Good Times Bad Times by Zeppelin, because that’s exactly what the party turned out to be. Except I would say 95% Good and only 5% Bad. The good being that almost all of my amazing friends were in one place at one time, Jager ,rum, and good food were in full supply, and I was the center of attention. (I don’t like it all the time, but once in a while it’s quite lovely). The bad being that I wept like a fucking infant with a wet diaper for the last 45 minutes of the party. This is the second baby analogy I’ve used since I started this blog…I’m betting Freud would have something to say about this. Back to the crying thing, I am definitely an emotional individual; I still cry at E.T. no matter how creepy that damn alien is. But I promise you that I am not normally that drunk crying girl who is dragging the whole party down with her hysterical sobbing about absolute nothingness. I am usually the one trying to stick my tongue in friends’ ears and telling people I love them for the 48th time that night. Yep, I’m that girl. But alas, when the evening was beginning to wind down and I realized I wouldn’t be seeing many of these people for the next year, the waterworks commenced. And kept coming. And then came some more. And a little bit more. We’re not talking a few glistening tears bravely wavering on my cheeks. Nope, we’re talking hysterical, can’t catch my breath, shoulders heaving, people staring awkwardly, sobbing. A quick note on saying goodbyes: I can’t stand them. I would prefer to have passed out and just woken up with everyone gone, because goodbyes seem so final and it’s too fucking hard. I cannot stress this enough, I HATE GOODBYES. So the goodbyes combined with a multitude of shots (it’s like the tolerance I built in college was a complete waste of time) left me gushing like Niagara Falls. Even after all but one or two guests had gone, I wept for a good 20 minutes into my friend Jacqui’s bosom about topics ranging from my leftover Aussie Shampoo to Ashton Kutcher’s fictional fatherhood on “That 70’s Show.” I’ll tell you what, if I’m going to do something, I’m going all the way. Why half-ass a crying fit when you can really go for gold?
Despite my awkward display of emotion, I am truly grateful to my friends for throwing, hosting, and/or attending my fiesta. I will miss the crap out of all of you, and just remember that if I call you sobbing from China, just recall that I gave you food and booze so you are obligated to listen.