Saturday nights are famously when a little city named Brisbane comes the fuck alive.
For the fun-loving, low-earning student, the glitz and glam of Mr Percival’s takes as big a toll on the bank account as it does on the self-confidence. Thus, the humble house party, without views of the river and people immeasurably more attractive than yourself, is where it’s at.
Yet, for 22-year old marketing grad Lucy Dyson, Saturday’s venture to a work friend’s housewarming did not deliver the vibe she was so desperately seeking after a brutally long week of contacting influencers on behalf of Verge Girl.
The party was full of people Lucy ‘doesn’t even fucking know’ (as revealed in a covert message to her best friend from school, Samantha Murphy) and the tub of hummus was large enough to ensure that the dismal supply of crackers was efficiently decimated, leaving a big, fuck-off tub of hummus on the table with no means of transporting the chickpea gel into one’s mouth.
She couldn’t just grab a spoon and go gangbusters on that shit.
This was dire.
The hummus thing had agitated Lucy more than it perhaps should have and she quickly decided that the gathering wasn’t her cup of tea, namely because Lucy likes to put a teaspoon of hummus into her Earl Grey, which is admittedly deranged but we’ll push on. You know, now that I’m sitting down to write this out I’m realising that Lucy’s hummus thing played a way larger part in this than I originally thought. Hummus in tea is weird, right? It’s not just me?
Regardless, Lucy was set to bail. However, she knew that if she told the host she was heading off, that would add a minimum of 30 minutes to her departure time.
‘You can’t go,’ ‘I never see you!’ ‘But it’s so early!’ These words of peer pressure would ring across the Paddington living room filled with twentysomethings trying to forget their work week. Fuck that shit.
Lucy whispered to her sole ally in the weed-infused lounge room that she was going to ‘smokebomb.’ However, the declaration raised a vexing anthropological question: can one smokebomb if no one noticed, reacted, or even cared when they arrived?
Both sides of the conundrum have plausible merit. Lucy did make a beeline for the door and order the Uber from around the corner to avoid spiking the interest of any witnesses, a low risk as she is genuinely so boring.
However, the smokebomb is traditionally followed by notice and discussion of the elusive getaway. Again, these supposed post-conditions did not occur on Saturday because no one gave a single fuck whether or not Lucy was there to give her spiel about how much she loved ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and how it has to be seen on the big screen. Yeah, cool, Lucy.
Regardless of where you stand on the smokebomb quandary, we can all agree that Lucy is a certified piece of toast.
More to come.