Grant sat in front of his computer, looking at the invite he had sent out. A New Years’ party at his house had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Grand. Elegant. Fun. All his friends gathered in one place to herald in a new year of prosperity.
He had sent the invite three weeks ago. Two people had responded. Out of seventy-five. He wondered, again, if he should cancel it all and stay in, drink himself into a stupor, and wake up to a slurry of cookies and vodka in front of him, like last year. Assuming he passed out on his side.
No, he thought. I’m not going to cancel it. But I will change it.
Grant changed the starting time from eight o’clock to ten. No sense having people show up early. Let them know late is du jour.
Next, Grant changed the place. No longer his basement flat. Too boring. Small. Intimate. Personal. No, no, he thought, don’t go down that rabbit hole. The nearby club. That will be the starting point of an epic club crawl.
After a bit of research, Grant posted the itinerary of clubs they would walk to, and intermediary events: pizza at the corner, a dance-a-thon in the middle of the pedestrian street, and a run from the police after some illicit event on the bridge, details TBD.
Finally, he added the last hook. They would be celebrating Grant’s twenty-eight years, four months, and twelve days cancer-free! He worked on the (correct) assumption that people wouldn’t think too heavily about that one, or how old he actually was.
With that, Grant clicked the button, and the event was updated. He sat back to wait for the RSVPs to pour in.