Diary: Going to a Party

This party.  Now I’m too tired to go to this fucking party.  Jesus.  Too fucking tired to do anything.  Woke up too early.  And spent the whole day alone and now I’m tired and weird.  And (REDACTED) isn’t going, and (REDACTED) is going to flake.  And no one  I know is going to be there.  And I can’t get drunk. Because I’m going to have to drive.  And it’s going to be lame.  And google maps doesn’t work on my fucking computer.

But fuck it, I’m going to go.  Maybe I’ll get some ass. This chick (REDACTED).  Even though she used to date Chris, I think she wants to fuck me.  Or, I think she wants to fuck people. And I am a person.

But who knows. Maybe she’ll just fuck Chris.  I bet she’s the only chick there, and the rest of it is a bunch of loser UCLA dudes.  I’ll make a long drive, spent and exhausted, and I’ll get a DUI.  I’ll get raped in jail, and I’ll get AIDS.  I’ll spread AIDS to my cat (through a scratch or something; I don’t fuck my cat.  Much.), and my cat will die.  And my dick will get cut off somehow.  Somehow my going to this party will result in nuclear annihilation for the rest of the planet.  That’s how bad this party is going to suck.  At this party, some cold I’m carrying will combine with some other virus someone else is carrying—but not an STD, because I am definitely not getting laid at this party– some virus I’m carrying will combine with tetanus I get when someone at this party drives a nail through my dick and it will create a supervirus that will kill the whole planet.  But especially the people I love; they will die first, in front of me.  And my car will get stolen.

This party will have those weird scoop shaped tortilla chips, but half of them– no, not even half.  All of them will be fucking broken.  The whole purpose of buying the special scoop shaped chips will be thwarted because some fuckface will have set a ten pound bag of ice on top of the chip bag and shattered all the chips.  And then what’s the fucking point. You may have noticed, aside from their special shape, those scoop shaped chips actually fucking suck as just regular tortilla chips. The corn is just flavorless and grainy. Mealy. I will be left with a bag of flavorless mealy shards that barely hold even a meek little piss-trickle of salsa water.  The chip shards will not even be big enough to support a single decent sized tomato chunk, and even if they did, you wouldn’t want them to, because the salsa at this party is going to be the bland kind endorsed in the 90’s by Chris Elliott, not some awesome Trader Joe’s smoked habañero yuppie snob salsa like you would want.  Or just some fucking clam dip.  Why do people put clams in anything.  Why are clams ever even considered as a food to be eaten when not pulled from the seaside mere moments before.  Their hideous, H.P. Lovecraft-y primitive alienness— ugh.

And the pointy, mealy chip shards will cut my mouth.

Anyway, this party.   What are the fucking odds it’ll be good.  I’m not going to be in a good mood, because I have two states of being: in a bad mood or drunk, and I can’t get drunk because I have to fucking drive.

Maybe someone will have some coke.