Did you catch a glimpse of those three guys, as I was walking down the street?
“Hey, Party Girl!” called the tall one in the baseball cap. “Come and party with us!”
So of course I did. My heels clicked against the pavement as I sashayed up the walkway. “You guys ready?” I asked.
What? Did you think I should have kept walking? Did you expect me to say no? Then clearly, you don’t know who I am.
I’m Party Girl.
And let’s face it, a party’s just not a party without me there.
Like this party. An ordinary Friday night crowd of tense faces, drowning in Taylor Swift pop at the bottom of a plastic red Solo cup. Pathetic. But those three guys knew what was up. The minute they sensed my presence, they invited me in. Like any good partygoer should do.
And just like that, everything changed.
It’s like Disney magic sparkles floated in the room after me. Suddenly, the music began to pump, and faces came to life.
“Let’s get this party started!” I said. I popped the cork of a frosty bottle of champagne (what, like you don’t carry your own champagne to parties?) and dowsed myself in the bubbly rain. “Whooooooot!” I cheered.
All around me, voices echoed my cries. The music turned up a couple of notches, and soon, there wasn’t a single person sitting. We jumped and twisted and gyrated our hips to the music, lost in the release.
That’s how it usually goes.
But one night, things got a little out of hand. Sometimes that happens. I don’t know why the party spirit hits some peeps just a little too hard, you know what I mean? Like, the high they get isn’t enough, so they have to throw dangerous crap into the mix. Illegal drugs. Stupid stunts. When this kind of thing happens, I usually take off so that no one can blame me when someone gets hurt.
But that time, I was too slow.
There was an underage kid at the party. A skinny, hungry little thing who wasn’t ready for liquor. Especially the amount of liquor they got him to guzzle down, like he was a car, and they controlled the gas pump.
“Stop it!” I said, trying to push the kid toward the front door. “Let him go home.”
But they wouldn’t stop. They pushed and pushed. Then, next thing you know, the kid was out, flat against the discolored carpet, surrounded by the discarded booze of the partygoers who’d fled the scene. In the spotlight of whirling red and blue lights, the remaining fingers pointed at me.
So the officer did the unthinkable. He fastened cold handcuffs around my wrists and locked me away.
“No more Party Girl,” he said with a sneer.
I waited until he walked away. Then I smiled.
The very next night, while I was lying on a lumpy mattress in my cell, a party began. No, not where I was. Somewhere across town. I could feel the vibrations in my bones.
Somewhere, in an ordinary house, a group got together to let off steam. Someone opened the front door, and in walked a boy wearing bright red sneakers and a grin as bright as the daylight. “Let’s get this party started!” he cried, then pulled out a frosty bottle of champagne (I’m telling you, it’s a thing).
And all around him, the party came to life.
The next night, same thing. Only it was a girl with high ponytails and dance moves like Britney.
Then the officers let me go. Because it finally occurred to them that, no matter how hard they tried to lock me up, you can’t stop Party Girl. Anytime a group of peeps is gathered together, Party Girl will be there, too. I am that guy turning up the stereo volume. I am that girl dragging you into the circle to dance. I am the shine in your glow necklace, the beat in your dance tunes, the cherry floating in your drink.
A party without me just isn’t a party.
So open the door and invite me in.
Are you ready?