You’re at a party. You hate it. You don’t remember why you came. It’s been the same shit every time you go – others, more comfortable in their own skin than you, socialize and make merry. They eat, they talk, they laugh loudly and they dance. How do they all dance? And you? You stand next to the food, sipping your drink and eating your chicken tikkas, one inconspicuous toothpick at a time. Your friends come talk to you and try to convince you to join the party instead of being a silent observer. To their credit, they really do try, and to your credit, you did consider it for that fleeting second. But you are who you are, and who you are is a socially awkward guy who cannot wrap his head around how to make forced, awkward small talk. You drink more but you aren’t getting drunk more. You eat more but people are giving you looks.
Why the fuck did you come?
You came because you’re horny. That’s the thing about being horny. You will ignore every rational instinct in your head when given the hope of meeting a girl. So here you are sipping your drink, eating kebabs (having gone through the tikkas already), standing alone, invisible to the party, but hopeful for a girl to somehow get magically attracted to you. The ridiculous part is that you know how unlikely it is even when you’re at the party, but now that you’re there, you may as well hope. You would think that you would draw a limit to the fantasies you create for yourself, but oh no, what would be the fun in that? Not only do you expect some girl to find you wiping chutney off your chin more attractive than the pretty Punjabi boy but you want this girl to look like Lisa Haydon.
What the fuck were you thinking?
And right when you’re considering leaving, you find yourself standing next to her. Not Lisa Haydon, but a girl, incredibly pretty, far beyond your league, but seemingly open to conversation. And you know, you just know, you are going to fuck this up.
This girl could have magically appeared or could be a friend of a friend, it is irrelevant, for you will fuck this up. But of course, before you do, you must make time for your limitless fantasies unrestricted by mere practical concerns of rationality or probability.
You attempt to make conversation, and would you believe it, she responds with full attention. You’re getting more comfortable slowly and becoming more like the fun guy you know yourself to be. You make a few jokes and she laughs loudly. She flicks the hair off her face and touches your arm and you think to yourself, “I’m in.” You’ve moved from playful small talk to playful flirting. You’re looking into her eyes and she into yours. You touch her arm and she smiles, playfully. Seductively. You muster up the courage and ask her if she would like to dance, she leans in and whispers a different proposition in your ear.
Now here’s what really happened.
You: Hello. (Yes. That’s your opening line.)
Girl: Hello. (So far, so good)
You: So how do you know … (or similar statement to find out how she had the misfortune of being at the same party as you)
Girl: I’m a friend of somebody from somewhere.
You: Oh. I know somebody, good guy!/Oh. I know somewhere, good place!
(This moment here is very important. This much small talk she’s made with every guy at this party. Hell, she talked more with her friend’s driver whose Honda Accord brought her to this party. To this party, to this moment, when you show yourself to be different from the rest.)
You: So, having fun?
Girl: Yeah, it’s a pretty great party. Aren’t you?
(Your comfort zone – whining about parties)
You: No, but it’s not the party, it’s me (You hope for a slight giggle or smile). I’m not a very social guy but my friends always talk me into coming and I for some reason convince myself that I’ll be more social each time. (Again, giggle or smile)
Girl: (If she’s sweet) Well you’re socializing with me, that’s something, isn’t it?
(If she’s not) Ah. Hm. OH MY GOD, LOOK, A NAKED MAN ON A CLOTHED GORILLA! (And she quickly runs away while you turn your head excitedly and search)
You: (Continuing conversation with the sweet girl) Indeed I am, and believe me, I thank my good fortune for successfully having engaged you for so long. How do you people do it? Socialize, small talk?
Girl: I don’t know, it’s easy, not something I think about really.
(Like fucking clockwork, just when you are actually managing to socialize with this girl, enters Better-Looking-Better-Dressed-Suave-Smooth-Talking-Mother-Fucker, or BLBDSSTMF for short)
BLBDSSTMF: Amana, why are you not dancing? Let’s go. (And he holds out his hand for her while you imagine peeling the skin off his fingers and pouring your drink on his raw flesh)
Girl: I was tired and taking a break. You carry on, I’ll join you.
BLBDSSTMF: I’m holding you to your word, Amana.
You: Amana, eh? That’s a very pretty name. I’m Arshu, it’s not as pretty as it is, dog-ly.
(This was your ace-in-a-hole. You aren’t going to get any line better than that.)
Girl: Hahaha, no, I like Arshu (Success!). Would you like to dance, Arshu? (So close)
You: Er, no, I don’t dance.
Girl: Come on, everyone can dance.
(WHY GOD, WHY?!?!)
You: No, really, I don’t dance.
Girl: You sure?
You: Yeah, I’m afraid so.
Girl: Alright then. I’m going to dance. It was nice meeting you, Arshu.
You: (You’re crying inside by this point) Likewise, Amana.
And so she left.
You, by some stroke of luck, managed to have a conversation with Lisa Haydon, who wasn’t turned off by you, and you fucked it up. You repeat the incident in your head and kill yourself in as many creative ways as you know. You see her dancing with BLBDSSTMF. You feel like slapping yourself. You actually slap yourself. The girl next to you slinks away. You no longer care. You repeat the story to your friends. They laught at you. They tell you it’s alright and that they’re heading back anyway. They tell you to smoke or drink the memory away. You laugh. You’re finally leaving. You look back at the dance floor and look at Amana. She happens to look up and she smiles. Fucking bitch. Now you spend the rest of the week thinking about what could have been.
Why the fuck did you come?