Pity Party

Welcome…

You are cordially invited to the first annual Pity Party.

Come one ; Come all*

(*All entrants must be over the age of 35 with ID to gain admittance.)

All refreshments will be provided:  a salt water punch made from the tears of middle-aged men and women who’ve just woken up to realise that their first instincts all those years ago as teenagers were correct – they ARE fools.

There will be a finger buffet of stale wet bread served with wrinkles and flab. Hot charred bingo wings and beer bellies marinated in despair. For vegetarians there will be a salad of fear with a disappointment dressing.

The dress code is informal: Come as you are, not as you want to be.

There will be party games. Everyone must bring their own personal sack of misery, stored whichever way suits them best: a monkey on your back, a leaden backpack weighed down by stones pulled out of rivers you never had the guts to walk through.

Ladies: bring the make-up case full of the artificial faces you spent $$$$ needlessly creating only to be washed away each night before you went to bed. Bring the dresses that no longer fit you but you promised yourself one day would again. Gentlemen: bring the comb you wished you still needed and the empty wallet once bursting with borrowed money. Both, fill your pockets with the broken dreams and desiccated plans that once got you out of bed but now just weigh you down like so much small change. Stick your ancient fake smiles now cracked and unusable into your suit pockets; throw in your unused and dried up wombs. Bring along all the things you’re trying to hide, all the inexcusable and unlovable secrets. Relax and take an evening off from convincing the world how ‘fabulous’ everything is because, let’s face it, you aren’t fooling anyone anymore.

Etiquette must be observed at all times: Don’t walk away. Don’t pre-judge anyone else’s misery pile unless they have taken their shoes off for you to walk around for a mile in.

Upon hearing the gong sound, all misery must be placed into a large pile in the centre of the room, a true bonfire of the vanities, a yard sale for the soul. And then once we all feel loosened up and relaxed enough, we’ll have a poke around in the entrails, picking out, comparing, choosing which of each others misery we’d like to take back with us in exchange for our own. A baby shower of unwanted gifts for the slowly dying.

It’s going to be a great night, I trust you will be able join us…

RSVP.

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