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Black

Party pooper

Just back from Garret's bachelor party. Lots of laughter, good food and drink, and a few puffs from the hookah. Some seemed surprised that I came and surprised that I made them laugh.

I seem to be good at a party, but I'm really not. I hate them. My rapid-fire joking and engaging others in side conversations are usually just my ways of dealing with my discomfort. Horridly boring as it sounds, I'm usually the type who prefers a meeting to a celebration. Doing some thinking about this and why it is the case. My conclusions are tentative but grim—indicators of deep-seated brokenness and dysfunction within me.

Yet as I've mentioned before, I don't assume my feelings are constant. It's better when I attend with a friend (which is different somehow from simply being among friends). Perhaps companionship is part of the key. But it's deeper than that, deep enough that I doubt I can fix it. Maybe on this side of heaven, that's just part of who I am. Hope the knot in my gut is gone by morning.

Comments

lifer

Know just what you mean. Parties are a hard place to be genuine, particularly when they're peopled primarily by acquaintances.
I think many people prefer "work" to what other people call "play." I'm certainly one of them.
hmm. you say you're not good, yet evidently, people enjoy you; yet there's something else there, as you say, in "brokeness and dysfunction." most people if they can succeed socially, then everything is okay because its a barrier/wall to the deeper stuff. you obviously acknowledge the deeper stuff but aren't ncessarily satisfied with being "okay" on the exterior. i hope you can get through the inner workings to the possiblity of social enjoyment...if that's the goal.