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I like parties. The unpredictable drunkenness and chaos, the weird mixed drinks made of random household items that may or may not have been mixed in a bathtub, loud music that makes serious conversation impossible, dark rooms full of attractive people you have a solid 50/50 chance of sleeping with because you’re all young and pretty so, meh, why not? The fact that no one present will remember anything the next morning, thereby removing all pressure to be mature or interesting.

Oh, I’m sorry. I was describing a party from my college days. Or possibly an illegal opium den. The invite you sent me is to an adult holiday party. While the word “adult” makes it sound slightly pornographic, rest assured that nothing could be further from the truth. Adult parties trade the drunken hooliganism of our youth for what can only be described as my own personal nightmare: a room full of 30-somethings discussing TV shows they watch and trying their best to remain as sober as possible.

“Only one light beer for me. I have to drive home.”

No you don’t. Sleep on the front lawn.

“I can’t! I’ll miss my kids too much!”

Your kids don’t even like you. They won’t start liking you until you’re halfway dead. C’mon, you’ve got 15 years to kill before they become that emotionally secure.

Adult parties are all about conversation. All the terrifying questions I fear and try desperately to avoid in life become preferred topics of discussion: What do you do for a living? Where do you live? Why don’t you have a wife or kids? Who’s your favorite judge from The Voice? It’s like my parents created a bunch of clones to interrogate me.

My answers to these questions are 1) I approve t-shirts with penis jokes on them, 2) The part of Koreatown that only Hispanic people will live in, 3) Because all the women I know are smart, and 4) I have to go to the bathroom—please excuse me from this awful conversation. Thus, these parties are a bit of a burden for me.

Sure, I could make them easier by bringing a date, but it’s far too personal of an occasion to bring a new love interest, and my personality is far too grating for me to have any sort of long-term relationship.

So how about we make a deal? I’ll show up to your party by myself, stealthily consume as much free food and booze as possible without being noticed, and then exit the party around 10:30 p.m. to go home and watch mediocre Godzilla films on Netflix.

When I first arrive at your party, you’ll likely greet me warmly and introduce me to various strangers. This will have mixed results, because I’m going to be really, really high when I arrive. Will I merely nod and smile while not even processing a word anyone says, or will I be overly social, to the point where I’m loudly shouting inappropriate jokes about AIDS or searching for conservative guests in hopes of pitching them my script treatment for a cartoon about superhero fetuses who solve crimes interspersed with very serious, emotional scenes in which the prettiest and most talented superhero fetuses are aborted by Charles Manson-style cult hippies?

I will then proceed directly to the booze section of the household. If there’s no beer available, I will ruffle my brow and “jokingly” complain about you to others nearby. If anyone agrees with me, I will stick close to them the rest of the night, swapping bitter stories about all the questionable friendship decisions you’ve made over the years. If there’s beer available, I will drink it until I can no longer see.

Once I’m boozed up enough, I’ll find ways to blend into the crowd to hide the fact that I have no friends other than the host. My standard move is to get in line for the bathroom. Much like the protagonist in a novel, I gain a temporary purpose or motive this way. I’m not playing games on my phone by myself because I’m anti-social. I’m doing it because that’s what people do in the pee line. I’m performing a task. I’m in the middle of a job. No one can accuse me of being a loser as long as my actions have a purpose behind them.

My second move is to pretend I smoke cigarettes, so I’ll have an excuse to stand around in the backyard looking complacent. This move won’t work well unless I bring a cigarette to use as a prop. It’s also dangerous, because smokers tend to be chatty, so I may end up making friends against my will.

Look, I believe in friendship. The nice kind of friendship where you text each other once every few months and never actually hang out. But I simply cannot attend any more of these 30-something parties where people dress in button-up shirts by choice and want to talk about my life. Can’t I just wear a nametag that says “Townie” and sit in the backyard playing fetch with your dog while drinking all your beer for free?

A friend that allows that is a true friend. A hero, even. I would consider texting that person twice a month.