Parties are designed to be fun. You show up, steal a Dixie cup and drink copious amounts of alcohol until merriment ensues. My friend’s little brother’s twentieth birthday party—excruciating. The first sign of trouble was the ratio. 50 guys wearing pastel polo shirts congregated by the beer pong table while five girls huddled on the couch—whispering. It’s inevitable that if you cram a bunch of men in one room there will be tension. Beer is the bridge between us. Drink some and join us in Chillville. People that stand in doorways know why they do it. Trying to drink myself into believing I’m enjoying myself I nudged one of these very people. Even though I felt his glare penetrate my soul he wasn’t going to be the one who scuttled my night. My opponents in beer pong took up the task with flying colors. After their miraculous comeback they turned to each other, popped their collars and pulled out their invisible guns. Stifling back the vomit while I shuffled through the tanned biceps the night air was more than inviting.

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