Well what do we have here? A bitch and a slut. In other words, a guestblogger in all her glory.
And so rolls around another Friday night- the night of nights that I hold out for all week. The night with which I share a dysfunctional love-hate relationship. OH FRIDAY, why do you tease me so? All week you linger. Playing hard to get. And when I finally have you all my desires flee…because it’s then and then only that I realise you are nothing but impostor for a good time. You symbolise freedom, excitement, rebellion and calamity, yet when I catch you all I feel is bitter disappointment. HEY EVERYONE, FRIDAY’S A PHONEY. If you were everything you’re meant to be you wouldn’t let me be home watching Masterchef with my mother- you’d be leading me astray. And what’s more is you humiliate me- how many times more am I going to have to convince the young lady (brothers girlfriend) in the gladiators that I’m not housebound for the fourth weekend in a row? How will my lies and translucent excuses continue to suffice with her? I’m losing the sociality game to the girl with the inexhaustible wet-look leggings and the plentiful but unexplainably diminishing supply of chewing gum in her bag. Yes…why is it that every time she turns around from an unnecessary hand holding session that her Wrigley’s tabs have decreased by 3? And why is it that little X’s breath is always so pepperminty fresh? Don’t ask me, I’m just a girl.
The sad reality is that everyone’s out and about but me right now. Even if there was a party at mine, right here, right now, I’d be crying…because it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. Most probably out of embarrassment of all the people around drinking fine, warm and smuggled beverages such as Fruity Lexia and Coolabah from luminous metallic pillows. For those who prefer a more discrete approach- it would be a week old Mt Franklin bottle that’s label is faded and torn and has so many dents from the battering its undergone in a communal bag shared by the cheap drinks of other budding and secretive alcoholics. We all sure do think we’re so clever disguising our poison in spring water bottles. Only when half our consciousness, hand-eye coordination and dignity has walked out the door do we realise that maybe our under aged drinking was more obvious than intended. Good thinking you stupid juvies- given the yellow colouring of your drink everyone at the party knows your either suckling like a corrupted baby on your own urine or 9 dollar goon and no-ones sure which one is actually worse. Either way you make the older years whom you learnt the tricks of the trade from ashamed of you and that’s why after a while you stop caring and instead embrace your tackiness and mark the next Privilege White Party in your school diary.
I like to think my friends and I can rise above this- but our higher standards result almost frequently in the night I’ve been dealt tonight. The mind-numbingly bored, sit-at-home card. I guess all that I can do to avoid it next time is reconnect with my vulgar inner self and pay up my $30 to Eclipse just to prove to the young lady in the gladiators that I’m back on the town.
Hell yeah! I’m going to mix my wine with my juice and I’m going to like it!
Until we meet again,
The unnamed female protagonist.
Xo
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