You don’t know whose birthday party you’re at

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Damn, that&rsquo;s a good mojito you&rsquo;re holding in your hand. Did you check out the kitchen? There&rsquo;s like, a lot of finger food and grilled cheese sandwiches going on there and it seems to be a free-for-all. You should just stick to the rabbit finger food for appearances&rsquo; sake.</p>

Wait, what the hell are they singing in the living room? It sounds off-key, but you know it. You never want to hear it again, and you wish friends and family would never sing it for you again.

Wait, this is a birthday party? This isn’t the crunk, two-star, mud-wrestling-later, triple-X throwdown kegger that your roommate swore would be the best shindig this term?

First thing’s first: collect your bearings — all of them. Clearly, poor life choices brought you here, and you wish your mixed drinks were stronger. You recognize no one in the party and that should have been a red flag, but ideas of beer pong, flip cup, and inappropriate sharing during never-have-I-ever until you wake up on the front lawn — snow or no snow, pants or no pants — distracted you. There is clearly a lack of plastic red cups, you’re holding a long glass for crying out loud, and oh man, they’re still singing! 

Why are they singing “How Old are you Now?!” Isn’t the answer right there on the cake? Stop singing and look you terrible cacophony of tenors, altos, and shrill sopranos! 

With this knowledge of what banshees sound like, you need to leave. Exits will be found through the kitchen, the front door past the living room, and emergency exits can be found throughout the second floor. The sofa cushions around you are adequate but expensive methods of breaking your fall should you self-defenestrate from the second floor.

Uh oh. All this time-wasting has resulted in the singing to finish, and the allocation of cake amongst the masses. That also means the chance that someone too smart for their own good starts asking too many questions, like: “Who are you,” “How do you know [insert birth celebrator],” or “Get your hand off my daughter.” That wasn’t a question, so maybe now wasn’t the time to cop a feel, but you need to leave the building. Now.

Your retro, disco pants are inappropriate for running, but you should be able to groove into your moccasins and dip. While you’re on your way out, make sure to take a few paintings, lamps, and VCRs as party favours, and you can salvage some of this horrible misunderstanding.

Now, when you get home, do not do the responsible thing and try to find out what happened. Don’t check your Facebook and look up anyone you “care” about and see if it’s his or her birthday. Put every semblance of maturity of the situation under a rock, and for bonus points, blame the roommate that ruined your weekend. 

I always suggest flipping a bad scenario into something you can work with in an attempt to stay optimistic. In this case: you got a little buzzed, gained a new painting (I assume you grabbed the fake Starry Night — the dogs playing poker is pretty tacky), and if you’re lucky no one at the party will recognize you the next time you go shopping for a bucket of wings. 

You can only hope anyway.

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