Sunday, 26 January 2003 | Slumber party

Of course there are some things that made last night's slumber party different from slumber parties that I've been to in the past: there were boys there. I drank beer. I'm not 8 years old. I didn't stay awake all night, nor did I try. We didn't make hard-to-swallow lists revealing our true feelings about each other. I didn't know many of the people there. When I went to sleep, curled up on a round cushion with an afghan thrown over me, I could hear a couple making out on the couch. I went right to sleep, without spending an hour giggling and whispering in the dark. Take-out was ordered for breakfast. My parents didn't come pick me up in the morning, bleary-eyed and in a bad mood.

There was a guy there, a loud-talker, who spoke as if he were delivering lines from a stage. He made me anxious. I kept hoping he would stop talking altogether, but he didn't until later, around the same time that the make-out noises began.

There was a girl there, from Pittsburgh, who agreed that the loud-talker was obnoxious, and that the remixed Don Henley covers playing in the next room were incredibly bad. We got along well.

There was a cat there, a calico, who seemed to be terrified of people. I kept threatening it, telling it, "I'm gonna pet you!" as it dodged my hand.