I tap in to the app. There are several people asking me how I am. I don't know who they are.
I keep checking. I don't remember having so many contacts. But one is particularly striking to me. It's a profile picture of Tony the Tiger . My brother Wesley had written me earlier than anyone else.
“Everyone will laugh their asses off when they see this. What will mom think of his angel?” he asked sarcastically.
Still blurry-eyed from the hangover, I caught a sharp glimpse of what looked like the start of the most ridiculously fun party. At first I thought it was a cell phone recording as it said forwarded, but the angle changes made me understand that it was security cameras, actually.
My God, I should never have gone to that party! I've only been, as it seems in the first few seconds, because Dwight and Sophie forced me to. They pushed me to go in. According to them, I should have more of a social life. Isn't Habbo a way to socialize? Coworkers can be stubborn sometimes.
In any case, nothing seemed too interesting until they took off my glasses and made me drink half a bottle of Bacardi. I was almost taken out like a surfboard from that place, but the footage showed other people giving me water and others blowing me with a peacock fan.
I swallowed hard. Nothing would save me from becoming a meme. But, wait, there's more, of course.
After a modern resurrection, within three minutes of my liver almost exploding, the blood rushed back into my veins. However, I didn't look scared. Not at all. Instead, I started doing the stupidest robot dance possible.
Stiff as I was, people gathered around me and clapped me like a carnival monkey. Dwight tossed me a pair of sunglasses, and boom, I was Arnold Schwarzenegger crushing hearts of girls from Princeton.
These unusual images explain why I have marked kisses on my neck and smell like Victoria's Secret, as well as vomit.
You can see from the footage that the tide of kissing tired me out faster than a zoom meeting, and I escaped that peer pressure by knocking over everything in my path.
Then, in a strange drunken move, I took off my shirt, threw my shoes out a window and started shouting the names of my coworkers in what seemed like the kitchen.
Out of nowhere, you can notice how a tall, broad-faced guy wearing a tuxedo appeared from around a corner and patted me on the shoulder with a mocking expression on his face. It wasn't Dwight. Not even Sophie. However, they showed up on the scene soon after. I had to rewind the recording several times to understand that the guy in the tuxedo was the birthday boy, and his intention was for me to play team Beer Pong with the guys, against him and I don't know who.
Both the table and the red cups were the only things that were in order. Or at least until the game began. The guys seemed to complain to me like they did in the office, but in a worse mood.
Sure enough. On the first turn, the other team threw the little ball, but I swallowed it. Aside from that, I knocked over all the cups, and standing on the table, I spit that orange thing full of saliva at the birthday boy. Tuck! I guess even drunk I can't stop being spiteful.
In the video everyone stood still and mute. I cover my eyes a little, thinking the worst part is about to come. On the contrary, we started laughing like crazy as a guy in the background threw more ping pong balls, making an impromptu egg war with LMFAO playing in the background.
I couldn't get enough of dispatching people as efficiently as I did in the office. A new client? A new immediate departure from the place. Everything was dizzying. So much so that I even scared off my own teammates.
Without realizing it, I was like a shepherd with his flock. I brought everything into a small, controlled space. This made people, who were already talking about me, welcome me with arms up when I entered the living room. They all imitated me, taking off their clothes, including their shoes.
In truth, I, Dom Cruz, the allergic to nightlife and crowds, had turned about seventy-people party into a human zoo. I had turned into the life of the party. Wow.
I don't know how many times I've already replayed moments from the recording, but my stomach hurts and I'm short of breath. I try to adjust my body by getting up from where I'm lying and there I feel a shiver run down my spine.
Guys, I have handcuffs on my feet. What the heck.
“Wesley, I'm in jail! Mom, I swear I was drunk, get this off me now,” I scream on the spot.
In response to my desperation, not only comes Wesley with his typical crooked grin and a little Irish hat, but my parents with grim faces, too.
I try to speak, but they ask for silence, and invite me to watch the last part of the party.
It's me back in the living room. I was being the most pathetic aerobics instructor. Arms to the left, arms to the right. No! Even worse, the recording changes its angle and I notice I was djing.
The same people who were cheering for me, had kicked out the guy they had called out, to see me as I jumped from hip-hop track to Baby Shark.
And the whole place was one chorus howling “daddy shark, doo doo doo doo..”
I look sideways at my family. A tragedy. I focus on the recording again. Several police officers entered the house and skidded as they stepped on the strewn ping pong balls.
I want to hold in my laughter, but I explode, and the snot comes out. My family starts laughing too. Silence soon returns.
When the cops got over their embarrassment, they started handcuffing some and blocking others. I tried to be funny, but one of them showed me his police badge, and I fell to my knees, clutching my head in my hands. That was the end.
“So, well, Dom Cruz, any explanation for this madness? We're already $5000 in fines,” mom grumbles.
“Son, you inherited my party entertainer skills,” Dad somehow says disappointed.
“I promise I'll never step foot in an office again,” I say soberly.
“What?” laughs Wesley.
“Alcohol has driven you crazy!” shrieks mom.
“No. Never again. From now on I'd better work as a dj. No birthday person will be able to resist my mixes, don't you think so?” I reply with a big smile.
“And throw away all your cv, Dom?” asks dad with his arms crossed.
“As you guys always tell me on Monday mornings: every cloud has a silver lining,” I reply.
When these cuffs come off my feet, I'll become the best dj in New Jersey. Yeah, with that argument I'll quit in front of my boss.
And you guys, how would you excuse yourselves from never going to your shitty jobs again?
