the pre-party.
no one tells you about the anxious sadness of the pre-party. you vaccum the carpets until you're sweating. you blow balloon after balloon after balloon until you're out of breath. you tape streamers to the wall— this one's crooked, this one's falling— to hide the peeling wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling. you wipe and polish the antique furniture as your knees gather dust and dirt. cinderella has never felt more like your sister. you sit for a moment alone, surrounded by balloons, fluffy carpets, and gleaming floors. your hair is a mess, you're more dust than flesh, nursing a headache and an empty stomach as your time is running, running. no time for lunch, no time for sitting. you're a wilting flower in a vase in the foyer waiting for guests. then you get up and shower, get ready, get dressed, put on concealer to hide the dark circles, a little bit of lip gloss to liven your pale lips, greet your guests in a fancy skirt or pretty dress, mingle like the pre-party was effortless. then the party is over, everyone left. the living room is back to being a mess. you sit in the aftermath, the only invitee to the afterparty. you finally get to eat. you are happiness on mute as you munch on your first meal of the day at 12 AM in the quiet of your trashed living room, thanking your god the balloons didn't pop and the streamers didn't show the cracks in the walls.
