Another December and another parentally hosted holiday party complete with the traditional pre-party screaming match and subsequent meltdown.
Completely relaxed, I settle into the couch, unwilling to walk the fifteen feet to the bed or clean up the Funyun pile perched on my stomach.
Chasing that paper would be an overstatement—any forward momentum was exhausted years ago.
It’s something that just happens, like a baby or a gambling addiction.
Immediate frustration (1) festers as the bar doors slam shut.
No costume was finished, just the five-pound bag of fun-sized candy originally designated for trick-or-treaters.
It’s completely unexpected.
Instinctive and unapologetic, the drive to hone and flaunt one’s partying abilities seizes individuals everywhere.
Not to sound too much like an after school special, but anything can become a drinking game if you put your mind to it and believe in yourself.
Much like selecting pizza toppings, voting for a class president, or picking a TrapperKeeper, this decision lacks magnitude yet still carries the burden of you potentially being silently and forever judged for a wrong choice.