It’s Not Your Party, And You Can’t Cry If You Want Too

It was my sisters’ 21st party (and I was treating it like my super sweet 16th)

I had never met her university friends before – and I was excited to make a good first impression (but instead I left a lasting memory of my vagina, legs spread writhing around on the floor).

The theme was ‘barn dance’ (I wore a set of curtains for my first dress).


but decided to mix it up (attention seek) and wear two outfits. The second dress was more ‘rave’ (the second ‘dress’ was more a top).

My dad requested I don’t drink until all the guests arrived to help with parking, but like with every princess (pratt) I couldn’t wait to get the party going (so told my dad to go fuck himself and downed a bottle of vodka so I couldn’t see let alone drive a car).

I’d invited my boyfriend to come along and meet the family for the first time (I skipped introductions and took him upstairs) and I gave him a tour of the family home (my parents bedroom, as I jumped on the bed on all fours and shouted ‘DO ME LIKE A DOG’).

My dad was wondering where we’d gone, but just before he began his search of the upstairs he got chatting (purposely distracted) with a friend of my sisters talking about Frank Spencer (so he was too busy doing his ‘Betty’ impression to witness his daughter being carried across the landing naked screaming; ‘Why don’t you love me?!’ probably looking like the spawn of Voldermolt) My boyfriend took me to my room and left (ran for his life) and I got into my second dress (it’s not a dress) of the evening and re-joined the party for the speeches (and continued my road to destruction).

My sister thanked everyone for being there (‘and Debbie, well done for still being conscious’) I ran to the front (pushing past my grandparents, uncles, aunties, cousins) and began to sob (had a total emotional breakdown in front of the whole family) as my sister tried to console me (and my parents watched on wishing they’d lost me at a supermarket).


The family left and the remainder of the party goers loosened up (I completely let go) as a boy began to play kumbaya on the guitar  (rolled around the circle legs spread, I flashed my ‘I’m too scared to wax’ vagina to the un-wanting audience). 

I woke up the following morning and had breakfast (alone) no one was that chatty as we were all so hungover (is what I told myself as everyone avoided me like the plague including my dad) I certainly left an impression on both friends and the family.

(I rarely get invited to family weddings) 


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