Sorry I Can’t Come to Your Party

I promise I initially had every intention to do so. But things, they change.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. My girlfriend has already taken her bra off. I have taken my hard pants off. And put my Rogaine in. Some things you just can’t, and don’t really want to, rebound from, you know?

Sorry I can’t come to your party. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I RSVP’d that I’d definitely be there. But you can’t trust me as far as you can throw me. Now that it’s the day-of, I’m feeling entirely unfit for social interaction. My banter battery is just about cashed out, and my tank for putting on a public performance (wherein I do my best to completely fake that I am in a happy mood to a degree effective enough that people won’t question it) is running on empty. I acknowledge that I’m neglecting to come to a gathering of potentially interesting people when I tend to go on and on about how I need some more fucking friends — but you know me well enough to know I’ve never been great when it comes to following through.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. I’ve admittedly been drinking heavily and seriously since brunch. And brunch was just me sitting on my couch, intermittently making trips to the kitchen for refills from a box of cheap rosé while watching reruns of The OC.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. I’ve maxed out my allotted funds for Uber rides for this fiscal quarter, and the thought of schlepping all the way to your humble abode via public transportation just seems like too much effort. You know how it goes (or maybe you don’t): On the way there I’d be excited for the hopefully good times to come (albeit anxious that I won’t have any fun at all), but as soon as I’d arrive I’d just be negatively anticipating the commute back home in the middle of the night. I mean, Saturday Night Live starts at 10:30 p.m. in this time zone, after all, and while I could of course record it, I’d also like to live tweet it into the void, for some reason. (That reason is that I cannot ever and probably will not ever stop seeking attention on the internet, whether I end up getting it or not.)

Sorry I can’t come to your party. I celebrated a small work win with one of my favorite treats in this life: an abundance of garlic parmesan wings. I gluttonously consumed about 20 of them a couple hours ago, and now I can’t shake the feeling that my breath is going to be horrible for at least 24 hours and that the garlic scent may be emanating from every pore in my body. Maybe I seem overly self-conscious about it, but one time during my freshman year of college I ate the same thing and went to a party that night. At one point I let out an epic beer burp and a woman — who was at the time a burgeoning love interest — loudly commented unfavorably on the stench, even though she was all the way on the other side of the room from me. I’d prefer not to replicate that performance.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. This is a mea culpa: I forgot to put it on my calendar. And at some point along the line I unintentionally and ashamedly transformed into the kind of person who takes his calendar as some sort of gospel. Now I’m somewhat afraid to deviate from what I already have on the docket, which isn’t a lot, or anything at all, but I’m committed to sticking with it.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. I have to wash my hair. And I had a mishap shaving my nethers earlier. The less you know about this, the better. Trust me.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. I’m balls deep in a Magic: The Gathering tournament and I can’t neglect that when I’m finally on the edge of glory with my favorite Mono Red Aggro deck. It’s all I can think or talk about, which probably wouldn’t be a huge hit at your gathering, you know?

Sorry I can’t come to your party. I know it’s a Saturday night, but I have work to do, even though I’m not being paid necessarily to work at this hour on a weekend (fucking salary with no potential for overtime, man). And if I don’t get said work done, I’d just be a big ball of nerves the entire time I hung out at your place anyway. Sometimes manufactured fun takes a backseat to the comfort that comes with doing anything and everything you can in an attempt to avoid the dreaded Sunday Scaries.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. To be honest, I don’t really vibe with your girlfriend and have an inkling that this party is being held specifically so you can engage in a lavish semi-public proposal, which I can’t wholeheartedly condone, let alone get any type of amped up over.

Sorry I can’t come to your party. I’m barely able to get out of bed. I’m experiencing a level of fatigue I can’t properly articulate, and that (not unsurprisingly) wasn’t at all abated by a semi-fitful afternoon nap.