Street Zero: Super Zeroes at the MET

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The MET Costume bash is tonight. And I could give a flying rats ass.

Yes, I’m bitter cause I’m feeling like a total Zoe (spread it like wildfire indies: Zoe – to be excluded as in Rachel Zoe’s dis-invite to the MET ball by matron Anna Wintour).  Like a true fashion lover, I am excited by the lure of events that are only for the fashion elite and if my invite had showed up weeks ago (or through some magical courier service tonight from the desk of Anna Wintour with a personal note saying “Can’t Wait to See You Tonight, Saynt. P.S. Here’s a thousand bucks to make yourself pretty”) then without a doubt, the tone of this Sinners & Saynt tonight would be very different (I’m thinking it would be a more “Haha, bitches guess who’s going without you losers”-ish, but I’m only guessing). But alas, no invite came and I’m stuck watching the festivities from the sidelines, which got me thinking. Why in the fuck should any self respecting individual care about a party they aren’t invited to?

Suddenly, I had a bunch of flashbacks from my days in elementary school. I remembered Rooney Dutchman, the middle school cool kid who through some miracle of modern hormonal imbalancing had a six pack in fifth grade. Rooney used to throw the coolest parties and I was never invited. For three years Rooney was the man. He’d throw big huge bashes at the end of the school year and it seemed everyone was there, except me. Year after year, I was excluded until one year when Rooney was throwing his biggest bash yet, an end of middle school party, I got invited. We were headed for High School and Rooney wanted to end the time in Monroe-Woodbury Junior High right.

I  was more excited than I had ever been. I forced my parents to drive me to Abercrombie & Fitch to pick up a new outfit (hell, it was Upstate NY cut me a break). I got a haircut, picked up new shoes, and got to the party right on time. Hour One. About 20 people arrived and began drinking from pitchers of Koolaid and checking out Rooney’s Star Wars collection. Hour Two. Rooney finally decides to put on music but has no good CDs. Times were dark before the iPod. Hour Three. MTV goes on.  A Real World Marathon. For the first time I contemplate suicide. Hour Four. Some chick high on Grape Ice Pops decides that we should all play Truth or Dare. Finally the festivities begin. Hour Five. Realizing we are surrounded by the biggest group of prudes in the world, we end our game of Truth or Dare. It is revealed that no one has a crush on me and that “give me a BJ” is not an appropriate dare request. Hour Six. Parents arrive to pick me up, but not before hearing a mouthful from Rooney’s mom about my “daring” request.

All in all, the party I was so excited to attend sucked.  So basically, everyone and their still in the closet brother are all excited about the Costume Ball, which is probably just a modern day version of a Rooney Dutchman party. A whole bunch of hype, but a total bore to all in attendance.