There are certain rules that must be obeyed when planning a party. These rituals must happen. 

1. Conception

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Oh hey. I was born on this day a number of years ago. Since then I’ve done some stuff. I’ve seen some things. I’ve touched some butts. Maybe people will want to celebrate that with me.

2. Deliberation

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What kind of a get-together will best celebrate the day on which I slithered from a womb? Bowling? Eat some sort of fried thing? Getting sunburnt on a foreign beach? Vodka jelly? Just jelly? Just vodka? 

3. Action

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Facebook. Event. Invitations.

Do I invite every single person I know who lives in this city, or just most of them? Is 80 people too many for a party? How many will come? How many friends do people ACTUALLY HAVE? Has Facebook falsified all human interaction? Will we all die alone?

4. The wait

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You’ve done it: composed some sort of pithy blurb and uploaded a picture that best exemplifies yourself (Meredith Grey looking confused in blue scrubs). You’ve put yourself out there and now: people RSVP or they don’t. Knowing that won’t stop you from checking the event every half an hour, obviously.

5. The aggravation

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How fecking difficult is it to say yes or no to a party? What the feck does “maybe” mean? I’ll tell you: it means no, unless they get a better offer. WHAT IS A BETTER OFFER THAN YOU, OFF YOUR TITS ON VODKA JELLY, SLIDING ABOUT ON HARDWOOD FLOORS IN YOUR SOCKS? Nothing.

6. The approach

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Oh right: you actually have to do stuff. Not a lot of stuff, but stuff: talking to flatmates, playing Tetris with your furniture, scooping the gunk out of watermelon. Chips. Ice. Get the stains off the loo.

Regard your house from external eyes: it’s an awful lot of beige, innit?

7. The doubt

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No one will come. Not one single person, bar that guy from your work that you had to invite but don’t really know, and don’t really want to talk to. Everybody hates you. The world is ruined for our children. Jeremy Corbyn never tweeted you back. The only upside: now you get to eat the whole watermelon.

8. The cancellations

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Inevitable, like rain in summer. Like wee on your seat in the subway. Like buying two cheeseburgers when you’re drunk. Inevitable.

9. The day

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Nothing you can do now. Except cancel. Should you cancel? Maybe? Feign sickness? Death in the family? DEATH OF YOURSELF?

Too late: jump. You bought the watermelon.

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