Netflix and antisocial or party and spleen fire?? CHOICES.
So there's a party and you're not feeling very... social.
And by “not very social,” I mean you'd rather stay home and cut your toenails than interact with other humans.
I'm here to help.
Nobody panic. Put down the Skippy-dipped churro. Take another look the invitation and double-check that it’s for tonight.
It is? Are you sure?
Assemble credible excuses for not attending party:
- You’ve contracted the bubonic plague.
- You have to rearrange your sock drawer.
- You got the date wrong, because your iPhone somehow set itself to the Thai solar calendar.
- You accidentally left your mother at the airport/zoo/crematorium.
- Ben and Jerry exists.
- Netflix exists.
No. You have to go to the party. It’s time to put yourself out there, experience the world, and refrain from turning into a hermit/ficus custodian.
No. You can’t possibly go. There’s churro sugar all over your pants. ...Wait, you’re not wearing pants.
Don some pants. Summon an Uber as fast as you can. You have successfully tricked yourself — boom. No way out of this now. Bring your lucky raccoon penis bone. This won’t be weird at all.
Uber arrives. Make small monosyllabic talk about the weather and the sports. Listen to the French driver’s delightful diatribe against the French. Smile. Whoa! Not that hard, he’ll think you’re passing a kidney stone!
Arrive at event doors in the early stages of cardiac arrest. Thump chest King-Kong style to dislodge myocardium from larynx.
HOST: WELCOME TO MY PARTY!
YOU [roughly the volume of a painfully-shy mouse]: You’re welcome! [internally punch yourself in the face]
HOST: Nice to see you! Come on in!
YOU [giggling nervously and mumbling]: Sometimes when I’m alone, I like to dress in purple, lie on the floor, and pretend I’m a turnip!
Notice that the room is populated. Many peoples. Locate bar. Order an alcohol. Knock it back in one long swig — you are cultured and know more about wine-drinking than most.
RANDOM PERSON: Hi, I’m Jim.
YOU: [forget your own name]
JIM: Do you work with Greg?
YOU: [snatch eight mini quiches from hypersonic waiter’s tray and cram them into your facehole]
Use quiche napkin to control nerve water pouring down your forehead. (Eight mini-quiches and counting.)
Return to bar. Order something different — gin-and-tonic-hold-the-tonic — to appear mysterious and alluring. Pull a Clint Eastwood “vindaloo-overdo” face. You are a riddle wrapped in an enigma of a shirt inside eggplant corduroys. Attempt to tell the bartender your favorite nosy pepper joke, but your voice is too noiseless.
RANDOM PERSON: Have we met before? [extends hand]
YOU [laughing riotously]: JALAPEÑO BUSINESS!
RANDOM PERSON: [does not take eyes off you while scuttling sideways like a crab]
Play it cool. Bob your head to Rick Astley. He’s never gonna give you up.
You've been Rick-rolled. Bwhahaha.
Ensconce yourself in the bathroom for a 25-minute break. Realize your fly has been down this whole time. And you forgot to wear underoos. Eep.
Bar. Ask for a Mai Tai. Get reminded that this isn’t a Tiki bar, you fool. Tell the bartender you won’t stand for this anti-Hawaiian bigotry and there’s no need to be a douchecanoe.
YES! Parade that soupçon of assertiveness! You are not heard over the vociferous chorus of a Bon Jovi psalm. Everyone is claiming to be halfway somewhere, even though they are apathetic about whether they actually make it or not and times are shit for an ex-dock worker named Tommy.
Everyone is doing shots. Do three to show what a team player you are and that there is no I in becoming indiscriminately libidinous! ...Wait, there's seven of them? Then you’ve got it covered! Boom.
Scream jalapeño joke at host. Forget punchline. Assure him you are jober as a sudge.
Wake up pantsless in your apartment spooning a 5-quart bucket of Chunky Monkey and lucky raccoon penis bone.
Turn on Netflix.