It all happened very suddenly. The stampede that burst through the front door would not be stopped for any reason, fueled by booze and birthday cheer, marinated in songs from an acoustic guitar commandeered against my will.
Who am I to break up a good party, though? It is easy enough to fall back to my usual post in the corner and keep watch over the peripheral gloom while hiding from the madness on the porch.
But every now and then, the commotion spills indoors and bustles around me as I sit typing away on the couch content in my solitude, wishing audience with no one and none to request it with me. These are distant hopes, however, and if my guts can be held to their premonitions, I can expect to be wrestled from my perch before long and whisked into the din. Such are the hazards of being a predominantly sober person in a world carved by heavy drinkers.
This is not to say I don't enjoy many of them or count some among my close friends (though I am only passing acquaintances with most of the current crop)—morality has long represented little more than a comedic foil to sensibility in my mind—but there are certain pitfalls when all escape routes have been blocked off and one is forced to mingle in the stench of cheap beer. So, for now, and because I've aroused some contempt, the only thing to do is go on a mean drunk and chalk up a few regrets before waking up tomorrow to tender any necessary apologies.