TWERK TO WHAM! IN A FUGUE STATE

It is past midnight now and all recollection of this section of the party is going to come back to you in abrupt jolts over the next few weeks, or told to you tomorrow by other people cackling at your fear.

You: finding a mince pie uneaten on the back of a toilet cistern and eating it without thinking. You: shouting that awful office nickname you all use behind that weird guy’s back and him very visibly hearing you and flinching. You: going outside to smoke and puking in the corner. You: pulling a Santa hat bobble-first out of someone’s cleavage with your teeth. You: sobbing, dancing. You: twerking to Wham! as the lights come up, everybody slowly watching the room turn from purple light to white to silence, and you, humming little rhythmic grunting noises, moving your bum around so hard your pants split.