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2004-08-02 - 4:13 p.m.

I hate parties.

Yes, it is fun to imbibe mass quantities of alcohol and to have a joint constantly passing before your face. For seven hours straight. Other than that, why bother? I hate parties, because I hate people. Here is the proof that people inherently suck:

Prosecution’s exhibit A:

A skinny redhead whom we shall refer to as “Firebush” walks up to a group of people with whom Pencopal is consorting. She introduces herself to The Honey, commenting on how long his hair is and how she hadn’t seen him in a while. She introduces herself to The Honey’s best friend, who’s standing to the right of Pencopal. She introduces herself to another guy, who’s standing to Pencopal’s left. She opens a beer and starts talking to the guy she came with. Pencopal’s disgusted that yet another palefaced bitch has decided to play the I can’t see you game. She catches the eye of The Honey’s best friend (Humorous Hermit), who acknowledges the rudeness/awkwardness of the moment. Though Pencopal is glad that someone else bore witness to the Invisible Woman reaction, she remembers why she hates parties. Because people are assholes. Nevertheless, before the evening is over, Pencopal is vindicated. Firebush, completely devoid of any personality, spends most of the evening sitting alone or watching TV. She constantly catches Pencopal’s eye and sheepishly tries to make a connection. Though Pencopal loves to save the wallflower, she ignores Firebush, because if the bitch couldn’t see Pencopal when she first got here, Pencopal can’t see her ass, either.

Prosecution’s exhibit B:

After the fifth joint came around, Pencopal can no longer resist. She gives in to the availability of it all, despite the fact that she really can’t afford to be burnt on Monday morning. As soon as the zig zags leave her lips, her super sonar hearing is activated. Yes, under the influence of THC, Pencopal possess the hearing of a bat. Unfortunately, that hearing allows her to hear a joke that begins, “So in this boat there’s a white guy, a black guy and a…” The idea that someone in this house is telling a joke in which the black person is probably the punchline disgusts Pencopal, as does the girl telling it, with her big ass and her curly weave. She looks racially mixed, why the fuck is she telling a black joke, Pencopal fumes internally. Later, she finds out from Humorous Hermit that the joke’s punchline concerned a Mexican. And the girl’s ass is fat because she’s an unmarried mother of three kids. And she’s Mexican, which Pencopal supposes gives her the right to tell that type of joke, but she’s disgusted that it came up at all. Perhaps she’s being overly sensitive, but Pencopal really hates parties.

Prosecution’s exhibit C:

Pencopal was involved in or caught random snippets of conversation. A couple of The Honey’s friends made jokes about wanting to sleep with her. She laughed, but didn’t really find it funny. Someone extolled the virtue of therapy and Prozac. Someone asked Pencopal how The Honey was in bed. That someone was a man. Girls talked about marriage and children. Pencopal shuddered. Men talked about who was hot, who they’d like to do. Pencopal vainly hoped that she was in the hot category. When she asked “Where’s my boyfriend,” three guys, who weren’t The Honey, said, “Right here.” Pencopal hoped this solidified her status as one of the hotties. Pencopal wondered why she cared who thought she was hot, and then remembered she cared because she was shallow, vain, and insecure.


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