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Why do I go to these things? Salad parties, they call them. I show up in my new clean shoes, my hair parted the way I always hate it, wearing a sweaty blue suit I've never washed once since I bought it--who does? "Oh hello, Charles! Do come in, would you? We have all been expecting you! Oh, I just LOVE your jacket! Please, come in!" I smile and do as I'm told. First step into the party does not seem too bad, but the second step would like to say otherwise. Lilac, vanilla candles, and champagne? The awful mixture gags me, then shoots its way up my nose like laughing while drinking milk. Surprisingly, the smell is not far from that sensation, either. Oh, the party? It's just wonderful, of course. Dim lighting, toxic aroma, and chattering guests all trying to talk over the other. I make my way to the last stiff wooden chair without arms, my favorite. This is the perfect party with the best people speaking of things without talking at all. Why do I stay here? Friends? Why are these my friends? I must look like an idiot from the street. The next chance I get, I'm out of here. Didn't I say that last time?