There have been many times in my life when I have found myself near rock bottom. Whatever I did didn’t seem to be working, so I would continue to slip down the jagged sides of the precipice, bound for the chasm of doom that lay below.
Some people would continue to claw at the side of the hill, trying not to bottom out. Me, I planned a party.
I’m not the only was that has does this. I have known others who have been just like me. For you see, a Pity Party can be one of the most self-absorbing and therapeutic things you can do for yourself. I know. I have thrown many of them.
Before I brag about my own pity party, I should mention that mine are nothing compared to a friend who had what had to be the biggest Pity Party in history. It began one night when she was thinking of leaving her husband. It was obviously a big decision. I called her in the midst of the Pity Party. I could barely understand a word she said, she was crying so hard, only stopping long enough to down some more booze. It was an amazing party – lasted almost a whole day. And when the bender was through, she left her husband right there and then, never looking back with doubt or regret.
Now there’s a party. I had one that night too. Mine was fueled by some alcohol as well. During the night, I decided to take all my frustrations out on my entertainment center – you know the kind – the ones made out of glue and sawdust. I decided it had to be put out of my misery. I’m still not sure why it did to deserve the death sentence, but nonetheless, the sentence had been passed. I went to my storage locker in the apartment – yes, apartment – and got my saber saw. At about 10 at night, I began the slow and methodical execution of that poor entertainment center. I chopped it into little morsels of gluey sawdust, much to the consternation of the neighbor upstairs. I guess they are anti Pity Party. Well, screw them.
In the morning, the party was over and I felt terrific. I didn’t avoid the wallowing and pity. I reveled in it. I took it to its logical end that night. Rather than let it fester like a wound that wouldn’t heal, I just let it infect me, fully and uncompromisingly. I drank, I pissed and I moaned. I wallowed in so much self-pity that I think I sucked the entire town dry of it. There were no tears to be shed that night in Seattle; I had cornered the market.
There have been other Pity Parties, but not quite with that much passion about them. Now, I believe that when you throw a party, it should be a doozy. It should be a party that people talk about for generations.
For me, a Pity Party should never have food. Some booze is good enough. Get the depressant really working for you. Food just sucks it up and doesn’t let you experience a true Pity Party.
That’s not to say others don’t enjoy food instead. As most women know, food can be the perfect accompaniment to a Pity Party. Especially all the evil favorites you usually try to avoid. I have heard about (but obviously not seen) such legendary Pity Pearties, with sacks of Ding Dongs, Cheetos, frosting, whipped cream, spray cheese and other evil foods being carted into the home. Along with these came liquidious delights to wash it all down, though the case of Budweiser beer used at one of these parties in concert with traditional Pity Party foods seemed to be the perfect choice. If you’re going to revel in complete misery, make a Bud.
Can you really have a faux pas and serve the wrong food at a Pity Party? Probably not. I guess it just adds to the feeling of sadness and worthlessness that makes the party worth having in the first place.
You probably noticed that I haven’t been to someone else’s Pity Party. I know that women sometimes have a joint party. But men never have anybody on their invite list. It’s just not natural for men to Pity Party together. We’re supposed to be strong, at least in the presence of other men. And a really good Pity Party requires lots of angst, reflection, self-absorption and doubt that other guys really shouldn’t see.
That has its advantages. First, you don’t need to prepare a guest list. You’re the only guest and as such, the guest of honor. No need to plan party games; you don’t play games at Pity Parties, unless it’s 20 Ways I Could Kill Myself Right Now, which by the way, has no winners. Food is optional, as is the entertainment that night.
Entertainment you say? Well, a Pity Party doesn’t have to be quiet. It certainly wasn’t in the case of the infamous four-hour saber sawing party I had. In my case, the Pity Party usually has a selection of really sad songs. Depending on the theme of the party, it can be broken heart songs, lost love songs, my life sucks songs, everyone else’s life but mine is great songs… you name it. Since I can sing, I have a small repertoire of songs reserved especially for these occasions; otherwise, I crank up the stereo. When that doesn’t work, I find movies that I know don’t have happy endings. Who wants a damned “happily ever after” movie in the midst of a Pity Party. What a way to ruin a bad time.
The good news is, in the morning, there’s rarely a hangover. Because I chose to go down the rabbit hole of doom the night before and not stop the Pity Party until I reach the other side, I don’t have any morning after moments. The party is over. The lights blinked on an off, the party came to a close, and while I didn’t have to go home, I knew that I couldn’t stay there any longer.
I’m sure I will have a Pity Party or two in my future. I never look forward to the theme, I certainly don’t like who’s at the party, but I sure enjoy the morning after. It’s one hell of a rude awakening, knowing that my life doesn’t suck as much as it did just the night before.
Out on the Treasure Coast, trying to find the onion dip,
– Robb