Last Irish Exit


The more people arrived, the faster the party seemed to proceed too quickly along its rhythm until we were the last children of the dancefloor. Calling it the theory of social relativity, dancing to the quiet of a final track, time traveling with a wig.

“And then all of a sudden, the party is over,” I said. I was sad, again, all that commotion and opportunity and connection slipped back away into ubers and drives home and leftovers around the table.

What hadn’t the party been?

Not just the hours on the invitation, from the first arrival until well past the last Irish exit. Not just the balloon surprises.

All that came before, the construction, planning, printing, arguments, cleaning, moments of stress and worry — that was a ritual and could be looked upon as perhaps the party.

Time itself would


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