Richa Moorjani

Not because I'm taking shadowy pictures of all your stuff that I plan to post at 3 in the morning when I know you're not going to see it for at least 12 hours, by which point everyone you know will have seen that you, one, had a party and didn't invite them, and two, should probably run a dustwag over your coffee table.

That's rude!

I can also keep your cat company if you need me to.

I mean, if Pickles is going to get stressed out in the darkened bedroom you stashed her in with only an empty tuna can for company, I would not at all mind creeping in there and petting her for many hours until the party is over and you forget I'm even in there, which sounds awkward in theory, but will come in very handy when you find out that I don't mind helping clean up.

I love party aftermath.

I love seeing who congregated where and how many drinks they had and speculating about who kissed what and who went home with whom, even if it means collecting stacks of little plates covered in globs of unidentifiable cream-based goo and half-eaten celeries with their little unruly celery hairs sticking up.

So, you'll invite me, right?

You're gonna text me the address and favorite brand of tequila, right?

I need to be invited more than anything I've ever needed in my life, because trust me, I really am great at a party.

Seriously, though, invite me.

I'm the greatest party guest there is, especially since I won't come.