The Year of the Party

As the title of the post says, the scholastic year of 2005 - 2006 has been the 'Year of the Party'. Most of the people in my grade (including me, of course) turned 18 this year. The coming of age in Italy is always celebrated with a drunk night out in a disco. So this year, I've been out to several birthday parties in some of the best nightclubs in the city. Yes, one of those nights did involve the infamous 'vintage' incident that all my silly friends keep referring to. (If people have no idea what I'm talking about, please don't ask because I refuse to talk about it for fear of losing whatever little dignity I have in the blogosphere)

Last night was one of those nights. I have to admit, I can never make up my mind about whether I actually enjoy these disco nights. It all comes down to the music and the shoes I'm wearing really (and the level of alcohol in the blood stream of people around me!). What I can never understand is why women have to shower, wash their hair, put on make up, wear tight fitting uncomfortable clothes and shoes that damage your feet for about a week before going to a party where guys wear jeans, sneakers, a shirt, tousle up their hair and look really um..forgive me for using the term, hot.

Well rant aside, it was fun last night. It was Bad Hair Year's 18th birthday. She is known as Bad Hair Year because she's been experimenting with various hair colours this year that make her hair look really bad. As you can probably see, I don't care much about Bad Hair Year, she's just a weird person. I mean, what kind of a 18 year old has an ugly, hairy, smelly 30 year old boyfriend? But hey, it was a party, our hypocritical selves couldn't have missed that, however indifferent we may be to Miss Bad Hair Year.

That reminds me, TPF finally listened to me for once and let me braid her pretty hair. It looked fabulous, thanks to me! I looked like a prostitute, according to me. I'm the most prudish person I know when it comes to clothes. It took ages for both my parents to convince me that my skirt wasn't that short and my top wans't deep enough for me to be laballed as a umm..harlot. Seriously, if my own mother is telling me that my skirt which I think is short is not that short, it must mean that there is something wrong with me.

The party which was supposed to start at 11.30 according to the invitation began at midnight because everybody apart from me of course, was late. I detest people who are late *cough*TPF*cough*. The bartender was a horrible, horrible person who is so going to go to hell. She put extra alcohol in Marry's drink, and since she felt guilty about that, she decided to put none in ours. As a result, TPF and I, both ended up drinking lemonade and mint and Marry ended up drunk. I'm so glad Marry doesn't read my blog, otherwise she would probably kill me for mentioning her state of intoxication on the internet. You see, she goes into denial about these things.

Highlights of the party included an awkward conversation with a person who I used to be very good friends two years ago and then we basically just drifted apart. I saw her last night after about 7 months and it was rather uncomfortable. Then the 'vintage skirt' girl, who was also for the party (jokingly) told me not to defile her skirt again. Oh my god, why do people have to keep getting that incident up all the time? Why can't we just bury it in our memories and never bring it up again? The night also included TPF getting highly jealous about Juzie (her not-so-secret crush) dancing with everybody; but her, attractive random male asking me whether I wanted to dance with him and me saying no to him because I had to take a drunk Marry to the bathroom (I'm such a good friend!), the stupid males in my grade throwing reminants of their cocktails at people, me ending up with strawberry cocktail in my hair and spending the best part of two Madonna songs washing it out in the men's bathroom (the women's bathroom was locked because I think people were smoking dope in there), me almost dying of passive smoke because of the smoking of ungodly substances going around, two guys coming in the women's bathroom and asking TPF, Marry and me whether we had any cocaine for them to sniff and then getting annoyed about the fact that we didn't have any, me silently gloating over my sober condition while looking at a random girl throwing up outside the disco as we were waiting for a taxi. Ah, the joys of being a teenager!

So one would wonder what time I got home. It was at 3.30 am (I think its is the latest I've come home this year) and the first thing I did after getting home was wash my hair for the second time in six hours because of the strawberry cocktail. Seriously the bar woman is going to suffer, I mean, when I went there for drinks she told me that I couldn't have my Cosmopolitan because she didn't have any strawberry syrup, now I'm just wondering how it got on my hair then. I got up at 10.30 this morning, which is pretty late according to my standards because I can't sleep till late like most people and had a splitting headache, which almost felt like a hangover, except for the fact that it wasn't a hangover because I hadn't consumed any alcohol.

On an unrelated note, I am now the proud owner of a beautiful black Penguin edition of The Brothers Karamazov. People who frequently read this blog might know how obsessed I am with book publishers. I can't stop gushing about it and sniffing it. Alright, I shouldn't lie, I have also been hugging it all morning. But its beautiful!