The art of partying alone.

You know you are qualified to party alone if:
1. Crowds of people annoy/frustrate/upset you.
2. You are fond of the dark.
3. You are fond of angry rock music in the dark.
4. EDMs.
5. You prefer drinking alone.
6. Drinking makes you feel like you rule the world.
7. You’re miserable.

Phase one: Setting the mood.
Preferably a situation where the alternative is wanting to kill yourself, you have a headache and the work has piled up into a Golgotha mountain, and the cross seems to damn heavy.
Put it down.
Breathe.
See if there is something other than empty vodka bottles of interesting sizes in your stash.
Shake out a few clingy drops from the end of those bottles anyway.
If you do have some significant amount of alcohol left, its party time.

Now, you could mix a drink, get under the sheets and curl up with a book at most times like a civilized person.
This is not one of those times. This is for that time when you’ll do anything to stop thinking about something that is in your mind.
When you want ‘me time’ even though your mind knows there isn’t time for ‘me time’ so you ask your mind to shut the fuck up.

Pick a song. Not a bunch of songs, just a single song.
Preferably one you’ve heard before but not on an obsessive loop.
Something with plenty of bass-drops and mindless screaming.
It totally expresses how you feel inside. Ie:
Its an offshoot of panic, and a bad, bad day.
That brings us to
Phase two: the drinking.
Now, there is an animal itching to come out from under your skin, and its best you don’t hand it a fragile glass.
Remember, its not a drinking night. Its party night.
That bottle is an accessory to the murder of your fears and sadness.
So, take the damn bottle, scrunch your eyes shut and drink it down.
Fuck taste, fuck slow easy sips, fuck everything.
Just get the damn thing in.

Phase three: the wait.
Now, you wait for the alcohol to hit your system.
You do that by sitting dumb on the bed, staring into a blank nothing of space, ignoring the burning in your stomach.
You feel like you have swallowed a steel sponge but you don’t care.
The music is too loud, why is such an awful to god song playing anyway?
That song is fucking-
Oh. The beat is
D

R

O

P

p

p

i

.
.

n

g

.
.
.

Aand it hits you.

All of a sudden, its new moon and you’re a werewolf.
The beat is sick, and you want to scream mindlessly even though it’s three in the night.
You feel like Tarzan, like a cat in the heat and an elephant with its tusks torn off all at once.

In a blur of movement, you’re leaping on the poor creaking bed- crawling on the floor in the dark and pretending to be count Dracula as you stick to walls.
You are moving your head way too much, rocking your body demented-lady style like it can express the amount of power that churns in your system.
Or maybe that’s your dinner churning.

Oh shit.
Phase four: exhaustion

Now this phase might vary, depending on how much of that bottle you chugged down and your level of tolerance.
You could have passed out jammed against the bed and the floor, choking on your own vomit.
Or, you could have realized you needed to bail, stumbled up like a blind man and puked in the right place(hopefully)
Or, if you aren’t that drunk, you pant like a dog and try to keep it down because fuck, you feel like an iron trunk and the loo is so far away.

At some point you start up from your inebriated comatose, and since you cannot feel your teeth, you’re pretty sure you’re still drunk.

Its fucking freezing because the sweat dried on your skin, and its January and fucking 4 in the morning.
So you salvage the blanket from where it was discarded by drunk ‘superman’ you as a fitting cape.

Curling up in it, you bang the speaker on the floor (or just switch it off) wishing to never hear that song again.
Your throat feels like a desert but the bottle in front of you is too far away.

Your only companion is a smart-ass phone staring at you with its inky sauron-eye.
You are drawn to it, and it brings us to the conclusion of the party:

Phase four: drunk texting.
You find the last person you should be talking to with a tongue- diarrhoea and proceed to type out such innovative versions of that one thing you shouldn’t ever say.

You do that till you finally fall asleep because who are you kidding?
Partying alone doesn’t even exist.
Inspite of all your commitment issues, insecurities and mass-hate for people, you’re just like anyone else.

You hate being lonely.

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