Drunk Boys at Parties Taste Like Pasta

Gemma Mushington
3 min readNov 6, 2020

There are certain experiences where it is best to be out of your head and in your body, but that can be hard when someone else’s head is smooshed into your head, even if it is the best smooshing of your life, thoughts will still float through the broth of your brain. And you must stop yourself from calling it “smooshing” and just call it “kissing” or whatever it is.

Sometimes the kissing is far too much like smooshing. Tongues like rare steaks at cheap restaurants. Far too seared, too rough on the outside, lacking form on the inside. Slathered in grease and slathering you in it too. No amount of flavouring could improve this situation, no seasoning, not alcoholic or romantic. Nothing could fix a kiss that awful. Not even the sides. One and a half stars, the effort was appreciated and the chef really tried, but I don’t think this is the right career for him.

Drunk boys at parties taste like pasta. I couldn’t place the taste at first, but that was it. No sauce. Maybe carbonara, but not an overwhelming amount. I would imagine that, before the big night out, the date, the hook up, they’d make themselves a big bowl of said pasta, in celebration of the night to come, a sort of tradition that spiritually joined these men.

They’d sit down with their bowl of pasta, a smile on their face, while their friends also enjoyed their own pasta — surely they wouldn’t be eating alone? On this of all nights, the boys would all eat pasta. So, they would all taste like pasta? But… does this mean that they also don’t brush their teeth before they leave? Isn’t that a thing we all do???

Maybe I am choosing the wrong boys, the sort of boys who put pasta consumption as a priority over dental hygiene. I understand though, choosing between tagliatelle and toothpaste is hard when it comes down to it.

Browsing the menu for a solid 20 minutes before I make a decision, even though I browsed this very same menu, digitised on my phone, only hours beforehand, also for 20 minutes. I should be able to decide. And, when I do, when I’m ready, you order for me. I’m all for you taking the lead, but my heart wanted the chocolate lave cake and you ordered me jelly, served it to me yourself. Slippery, gooey, nebulous. Why did you order me jelly when you promised me a distinct lack of spiritlessness?

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