Let's party like it's 1699

I went to a party at Mel's house last night. I've been to many a teen party in my time and it's always the same even though I know it's stupid. I spend hours on hair and makeup, deciding what to wear. This time I even bought a new dress, black, knee-length, strapless, tight bust which [thankfully] flattened my boobs a bit and was kind of a fullish skirt 1920s affair. Hair straightened [somewhat] and pinned over my face a bit to one side. Gray ballet flats. All this, and for what? A group of teenagers getting together in a garden or a house or in the case of last night, a garage/driveway area, boys and girls casting nervous glances at each other, boys talking about sport or music, girls complimenting each other on their outfits. The heavy scent of awkwardness and sexual tension hangs in the air, everyone wondering when it's going to be okay to start drinking. And finally everyone does start drinking, and the awkwardness is gone, and everyone is dancing and sweaty and too drunk to give a shit about what they look like. So there's all this anxiety about going to a gathering of teenagers getting drunk and letting out their pent-up sexual urges.
I spent most of the night having a long, meaningful, in-depth, drunken conversation with the school drug dealer. I said "I want to be a psychoanalyst," and he said "I feel it's my duty in life to help people." I realized then that I don't give a flying fuck about helping people and probably never will. That's not why I want to do psychoanalysis at all. I just find it fascinating and I suppose I see "the patient" as more a combination of oedipal desires, childhood traumas and re-enactments, etc, rather than a real person. Nightmare doctor, I know. I'm turning into Bennett from Fear of Flying. To tell you the truth I always had a soft spot for Bennett. I know he was the Wooden Man and all, and he can be a cunt at times, but I didn't want Isadora to leave him for "that English asshole". And a lot of his theories made sense. Maybe it's because he's a Freudian and so am I. In the book I'm writing now, my heroine describes Freud as "my one great love growing up." If it weren't for the fact that I need, like, affection [and don't particularly want to be with someone who screws in his socks and pajama top] I think Bennett and I could have made a go of it.
Anyway, back to the party. I put my finger on what it feels like to be drunk - well, not really drunk, just light and uninhibited. Like chewing with your mouth open. Sort of not quite right, but it feels good anyway. And you don't care. The incredible lightness of being. Then again, I made up that theory while drunk, so you never know.
There were two great joys of the evening. One was seeing Sian drunk. Now Sian is 17 and has never been drunk. She's thin, and hadn't eaten much that day, and she had orange juice mixed with wine. And she was falling about all over the place. It was lovely.
The second joy was being told I was really pretty by a complete stranger. Lavelle and I met towards the end of the evening. Granted, she was drunk like the rest of us, but she said "I'm Lavelle. I reckon you're really pretty," and I smiled.