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Music blares through the night, streaming loudly through the entire two-story duplex, the bass of the speakers booming through the floor. There are red plastic cups and fake cobwebs scattered everywhere. Halloween-themed decorations line the walls and furniture, and there's an abundance of candy and candy-flavored alcohol all over the countertops.
Loud, rowdy voices and even louder Pop music fill my ears, and in spite of the loudness around me, it's hard to ignore the obnoxious laughter of some fellow dressed up as Gandalf sitting right across from me. We're finally here at the 'infamous' Halloween house party, and after tonight, my ears probably won't ever function again from the sheer torture I'm subjecting them to.
My body is slightly sinking into an old, worn couch as I grip one of the many identical red cups in my hand. I'm surrounded, in a house full of people I don't know, and the only person I do know, is busy flirting with one of the basketball players over at the ridiculously large pool table behind me.
We've barely been here for thirty minutes and I'm already bored—and annoyed—out of my mind. I absently look to my right and I see a group of girls in various R-rated costumes dancing and singing along—quite badly, I might add—to a Britney Spears song a few feet away from me.
Everyone, including Trixie, is present and lively, enjoying the night and everything else it has to offer.
I, on the other hand, am on a completely different wavelength. I'm here, but I'm also not here. My mind is absent, in some other place and preoccupied with other things that don't involve red cups, cobwebs, and rowdy people in costumes that are only slightly less revealing than see-through lingerie.
A guy dressed up as Ace Ventura comes up to me for the third or fourth time since I've been here, holding out yet another red cup to me.
"Here," he says, smiling eerily behind his dark shades and bringing me out of my thoughts. "Try some of the Halloween punch. It's really good," he offers for the millionth time.
His "Hawaiian vacation" shirt, tight pants, and slicked-back hair only add to his creepy demeanor instead of offering comic relief. To say that I'm leery of him would be the understatement of the century.
I shake my head and give the same reply I did before. "No thanks, I'm good," I gesture with a slight raise of my cup, showing him that I still have a good amount of whatever it is Trixie gave me when we got here.
It's sickeningly obvious that "Ace" is trying to get me drunk—or more likely, roofie the hell out of me—and is making no attempt whatsoever to conceal his intentions. Frankly, his approach is beyond tacky, not to mention pretty insulting. The whole exchange just feels cheap and gross. I mean, jeez, what the hell ever happened to at least trying to be inconspicuous?
As I try in vain to ignore his annoying and persistent advances, I only know one thing for sure; I'm really starting to regret coming here. I'm pretty sure I would have been better off if I'd stayed at home. Instead of keeping my mind off things I'd rather not be thinking about, all this 'party' is doing is pissing me the hell off.
My eyes keep darting toward the door. I honestly contemplate leaving several times, and I feel extremely tempted to just walk out of there when Ace Ventura offers me yet another drink.
This guy seriously doesn't get the hint! Or more likely, doesn't care enough to take it. Either way, I'm not at all in the mood to deal with his—or anyone else's—bullshit tonight.
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