Dull Stings {OPEN}

There's a light at each end of this tunnel,
You shout 'cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
And these mistakes you've made, you'll just make them again
If you'd only try turning around.

I watch the color fading from the sky through the tinted windows. Too early for a party, yet I'm at one. Why did I come again? Oh, yes, boredom, that's it. The motivation for almost all of my pursuits.

There isn't many people here. 'Many people' as in 'People are packed to the walls and I can't move without jostling someone with a drink'. That's how I like people, in large, undefined groups. Here everyone is separate. Separate people means figuring hints out, trying to entertain, to understand. Separate people means my usually excuses don't work and I have to think about what I'm saying before I say it. I'm a different person when it's us instead of all of us.
There's a few couples, but they're in their forties and fifties. Practically dinosaurs. Why are they here again? Oh, right, they're rich. Which brings me back to me original question. There are some good-looking boys here. Not good enough for my attention, however. Maybe the good ones are lurking in the shadows. They always are.

My friends aren't here. They're all sleeping already, or betting, or drinking. I'm stuck here with a bunch of old codgers and some young moralistic people. Those two things should never be mixed. Which makes them idiots, too.

I'm hungry but if I eat I'll get food in my teeth. I sip some champagne I'm not supposed to have (dietary reasons) and make small talk with some boy six years older and six inches shorter than me. Good Lord, and I'm only 5' 4". I tug at my dress and twirl my hair. Not flirting, just forgetful. Everything is wrong with me. I'm cold, I warm, I'm bored, I'm stressed, I'm ugly, I'm flirty, I'm forgetful, yet I never relent. Why am I such a cliche? Why can't I be like every other perfectly unique moral idiot in this room. "What a shiny black sheep," the shepherd would say.
Or "What a dirty white one." Even people watching has gotten old. The champagne burns, even though it's sweet. I hate it, it's not worth it. I drink it anyway. I finally consent to sitting on a cushy armchair and fighting with myself over whether or not to bite my nails. I feel sick and my stomach aches. My mother father gestures casually at me from across the room. I act as if I haven't seen him. I don't want to join the party. I feel like an outcast. I'm happy wallowing in pity for myself. I run my nails over my teeth and finally relent. After all, I'm hungry.