Parties are great. You get to dress up, drink warm beer, sit on a vomit-stained couch next to a guy who’s obviously a mouth-breather, and–wait, what was I saying? It’s not that parties suck. It’s just that they, well, kind of suck. We get super excited about them for days, plan and re-plan our outfits, and spend THREE HOURS on our nails, only to go to sleep with sadness, regret, and (hopefully) Taco Bell after a bust of a night.
This isn’t the party’s fault. I mean, the party tried. The party did the best it could. The party gave everything it had. When it comes down to it, it’s not the party. It’s us. We are to blame. We build up the event like it’s going to be Earth-shattering, mind-blowing, and life-changing. Unfortunately for us–and our Instagram accounts–the reality never turns out to be as great as our expectations.
Expectation: You’ll arrive when the party is in full swing. As you walk in, the music stops and everyone makes a beeline to compliment you, talk to you, and just be in your general presence. You do a casual “oh, hi guys” while being handed a drink. In a clean glass. Made with top shelf liquor. Bow down, peasants.
Reality: You enter an overcrowded house that’s already way too hot and stuffy. Literally no one realizes you exist as you walk in the door. You have to push through people in a marijuana-filled haze to find your friends, only to realize they aren’t there, so you stand in a corner on Facebook, praying no one tries to talk to you.
Expectation: You’ll be the hottest girl there, oozing confidence and pulling the gaze of every single guy in the room. You’ll manage to look sexy, but also extremely classy. The guys will be drawn to you, and will not only want to hook up with you, but take you home to their mothers, who will also love you.
Reality: Your “classy but slutty” look is overshadowed by the all-out slutty girls. Apparently, it’s suddenly cool to wear a bra to a party and that counts as a shirt. Your “keep them wanting more” approach can’t compare to the girls who wear skirts that literally show their vaginas. You admit defeat, throw on a hoodie, and chug beer because no one’s going to see your beer gut now.
Expectation: The hot guy who you have been crushing on since English class freshmen year responded with “attending” on the Facebook RSVP, so you know it’s going down. Your gazes will meet and something magnetic will happen. You’ll talk and laugh for hours, and he’ll invite you back to his place. Then you’ll start a journey toward a lifetime of happiness.
Reality: Despite his Facebook response, he doesn’t even show up. And if he does, he literally doesn’t notice you. At all. He’s too busy checking out the skanky girls in their shirt-bras to give you a glance, let alone get down on one knee to propose and start a lifetime of happiness with you.
Expectation: You’ll start the night out slowly, making hilarious comments and telling riveting stories here and there until eventually everyone realizes how fabulous you are. You’ll take shots and people will cheer your name. You’ll win the chugging competition like it’s no big deal, and as for flip cup? You play that shit in your sleep. You’ll literally be the life of the party, and you’ll most likely become Insta famous, thanks to your iconic dance moves.
Reality: Were you even at the party? No one really noticed you besides your few closest friends whom you hung out with in the bathroom. You snapped the whole thing but basically spent more time stalking the guy who doesn’t realize you exist than actually enjoying the night. You played one game of beer pong, but failed to get a single cup in and blamed the loss on your teammate.
The End of the Night
Expectation: The guy you went to the party for not only realizes you exist, but he invites you back to his place, after stopping at Taco Bell (he’s buying, of course). You’ll gaze into each other’s eyes and he’ll tell you he’s never felt this way about anyone before. You’ll make passionate love and agree to marry him in June at the Plaza. You’ll grow old together, share memories, and have children. You’ll live a life filled with adventure and passion, and when you’re very old, you’ll pass away in each other’s arms, with him whispering how much he loves you (BRB, crying).
Reality: You take one too many tequila shots (well, any tequila shots are too many tequila shots) and throw up in the sink mid-party. You’ll make it back home after spending $57 on a 10-minute taxi ride with an ominous man-figure. You’ll then head straight to your refrigerator and eat everything (including your roommate’s food) and cry about your cat, Mittens, that died when you were 13.
The Morning After
Expectation: Your dream guy and now-fiancé wakes you up by kissing your neck and telling you how amazing last night was. He insists on taking you out to brunch to celebrate your future together, and afterward, he spends the day watching “Say Yes To The Dress” with you in bed.
Reality: You throw up in your shoe after noticing that you silenced your alarm four times and missed your 10 a.m. exam. You roll over to see a mystery man asleep next to you. He isn’t wearing pants. After checking your phone, you notice that you’re tagged in 17 pictures and you have a text from some girl in your pledge class that reads “you’re a fucking bitch.” The hangover is almost worse than the shame as you realize you left your car–and your dignity–at the party..