If you’re kind enough to invite me to your party, I’l gratefully accept. I’ll look forward to it. I’ll even be excited about it. And then, on the day of the event, I’ll pray to all that is holy that you cancel it.
I don’t want you to get violently ill, or for your house to fill with locusts or anything. Maybe the downstairs toilet won’t flush. Or your oven broke. Or your shady brother-in-law Dominic needs a place to crash again and you’re worried he’d sneak into your bedroom and rifle through your guests’ purses. Classic Deadbeat Dom.
I won’t cancel on you, though. I will go, say my warm hellos, and as soon as I can, seek out your pet. Preferably a dog, but I’ll also be happy to see a cat, rabbit, guinea pig, ferret, iguana, or turtle. You can fuck right off with that snake bullshit.
This will be my home base for the evening. I’ll mingle, because I’m not psychotic, and I’ll be suitably engaging—downright delightful, even—but I’ll always return to my emotional support animal. And if you’re talking to other people when I leave, there’s a 39% chance that I’ll employ the old Irish goodbye. Apologies in advance.