stupid yippie dogs

why i should never leave the house again. ever.

You know that feeling when you go to someone’s house and then you’re sitting there on the couch and your brain flashes a message to you: “Uh-oh! We’ve made a terrible, horrible mistake!”

Friday night.

After the show there was some debate about what exactly we were all going to do. Some were going dancing, some were going home, some were going to have a party. So, I opted for the party. But the people throwing the party hadn’t left the bar yet, so me and the other girl who were going to the party sat together and talked waiting for the party throwers to go home and open up their house.

Flash forward an hour and a half: the party throwers finally go to their house and I’m the only person there. The other girl I was sitting with shows up and we both sit on the futon watching the party throwers clean up their house and bicker back and forth about who is being more inappropriate in front of the guests.

Other Girl and I go outside for a cigarette. We come back in to find that another argument has ensued, this one about whether or not the guests will be able to smoke in the apartment. He is all for it, she is strongly against it. She tells him under no circumstances will anyone be allowed to smoke in the apartment.

Other Girl makes a comment that their dog is the sweetest dog in the entire world. This dog is one of those small yippie dogs that probably means well, but I just can’t quite handle. I just want the little thing to sit down and stop leaping up onto my lap and putting his dog genitals on my arm so he can try and lick my face. I feel so violated. So I say to other girl, “Well..”

Female owner of the apartment says to me, “What? You know a dog that’s sweeter?”

Other Girl: “No, I just said this is the sweetest.”

FOofA: “No, I’m talking to Pam. You know a sweeter dog?”

pamie: “Uh… well…you know… the dog that’s mine… at my parent’s house.”

FOofA: “Fine. Fuck you.”

pamie: “No, it’s just, she’s my dog… so therefore I have to think she’s the sweetest.”

FOofA: “No, fuck you.”

Male OofA: “Calm down, honey.”

FOofA: “What, calm down? I’m just making a joke.”

Other Girl and I go outside to have a cigarette. We listen to the two of them argue for quite some time. We realize that we are trapped. Our things are inside the apartment, and both of us are waiting on other people who are supposed to meet us here… at this place… where we want to leave.

“Every night is like Thanksgiving Dinner with those two,” she says to me.

But then something happened to change the awkward situation into a potentially good time. Other people showed up. And they never knew what that vibe was inside, because we were sitting outside for thirty minutes, so the mood changed in there.

But the mood hadn’t changed enough, and Other People, Other Girl and I spent another half hour on the couch watching Bachelor Party.

It seems to be all calm, and then MOofA lights up a cigarette. In the apartment. Another fight ensues. I accidentally step on the yippee dog on my way to get a beer.

Then, finally, other other people showed up, and there was just too many people to watch an old Tom Hanks movie, so the actual party began.

But that always happens to me. I’ll think, “Well, I don’t really want to go to a party, but I always get ragged on for not going to parties, so I should go.” And then I go and I’m the only one there or I’m the only one there that I know, or I’m the only one there that’s sober or whatever and I just sit and think, “I could be at home cleaning right now.”

I just never want to go anywhere unless I’m armed with Eric or one of my friends. It’s too dangerous to try and find a good time on your own.

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