oh, dear.

Well, I think it's safe to say my career in politics is effectively over. In celebration of New Year's Eve my friends and I got plastered and basically hijacked a party.

You know how at parties there's always one person who's That Guy or That Girl? I recently had an opportunity to experience this on the receiving end, when somebody's friend from work's boyfriend's roommate turned out to be That Guy and had virtually everyone else hiding out in the smallest room in the house while he ran amok over the party. I woke up this morning with a blistering hangover, hoping desperately my friends would hurry and wake up and confirm I had not been That Girl. My worst fears were surpassed, however: upon reconstructing events, we realized we had been That Guy. Except there were five of us.

In our defense, I'd just like to say that the party we hijacked was lame. At first I mistook it for a theme party based on replicating the Most Boring Party in the History of the Universe. It had all the makings of a great party -- great location, great food, good music -- but everyone seemed to be deeply engaged in playing Try Against All Odds Not to Have Any Fun, and they were all winning. So we did what any sensible people would do, which was to get shitfaced as quickly as possible.

I got myself into a noisy debate about the union with some geography TA and got cut off, but not from booze, from food (this is still a mystery to me). Red at one point unplugged all the Christmas lights and the sound system, and then ran out into traffic. The one we will henceforth refer to as Tits McGee got into an altercation with some guy about the chocolate fountain and wanted to fight him. Chiquita protected herself from a New Year's Eve kiss by shoving her face full of carrots, and got mistaken for the Coat Room attendant while waiting in line for the bathroom.

Mind you, none of us remembered very much about any of this, but that's what we managed to piece back together when we all woke up early this afternoon in a big heap at Red's house. We were helped along by Don Juan Dominguez's photo-documentary and some sound recordings he made, which included one of me at 11:47 p.m. saying something that I can only assume is in German and winds up with the words "a responsible brassiere". I am sure it was very clever and appropriate at the time I said it, so it's really a shame I can't remember the context, or even saying it, for that matter. In fact under the circumstances I'm a bit concerned since my condition could only have degenerated from there.

Anyway, a fun time was had by all. Well, by us anyway. Our hosts, not so much, I think. And hopefully I will never cross paths with any of those people ever again, ever, at least not on the campaign trail.