This is a text I wrote back when Miley Cyrus’ song We Can’t Stop was popular. It is an attempt at describing the images that pop up in my mind when I hear that dark beat and see that music video.
The party had been going on for almost a week now, not just during the nights, but constantly; people were still partying, still drinking and still dancing, but with less energy than before, the spark in their eyes was all but gone. The ceaseless onslaught on the revelers minds and bodies was taking its toll: several people had passed out from sheer sleep deprivation, slumped against a wall, drink in hand; some had become sick from lack of proper nutrition, while others were getting headaches from the constantly thumping bass, or dropping from exhaustion when the effects of whatever uppers they had taken wore off. And yet, when the hostess made her daily announcement of “Does anyone want to go home?” those still standing would shout “Hell no!” There was no enthusiasm in the shout, just the mechanical response of automatons.
The house, like the guests, was a total mess. The upstairs bedrooms smelled of sex, the musty odor of warm bodies and perfume. The sheets lay tangled on the beds, used condoms and discarded underwear scattered across the floor. The kitchen table was occupied by countless half empty glasses and bottles, and a large knife had been driven into the table top next to a puddle of ketchup. A mound of empty beer cans and other trash lay in one corner and the kitchen counter was covered on some kind of pink goo. In the living room most of the books had been thrown out of the shelves, several family photos had been knocked off the wall, and a sofa had been overturned. Out in the garden, the pool had been turned into a pond of scummy water, with a deck chair floating in it and the lawn had been turned into a muddy field.
In the midst of all this, fueled by massive amounts of alcohol and myriad drugs, everything from cannabis to cocaine, from shrooms to LSD, the most dedicated party goers still kept at it. Well beyond the party routine of drink, dance and drink again, they were engaged in various crazy shenanigans. There was the guy who had emptied several bags of bread on the floor and was now rolling around in it; there was the guy who had spent almost a day constructing a skull out of stale French fries; there were the girls who were holding some kind of ass shaking competition, and a group of people were playing with a smoke machine. Being as wild and cray as possible was the name of the game.
The party had been fun at first, a commemoration of freedom under the parole “this is our party, we can do what we want”. As it went on, it had degenerated into this horrible mess, a sad, pathetic parody of a celebration.
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