Manboobs, Party of 1.

When I was 12, I threw a new years eve party, and no one came.

That’s not entirely accurate. My friend Ellen came, dropped off by her parents around 8pm. When she walked into our modest, suburban home I greeted her warmly, still unaware that no one else would turn up.

I had spent all day prepping for my big party debut. I had an early knack for thinking through the details (budding young gays of the world, unite) and had carefully chosen 4–5 different kinds of tasty chips, pretzels and even some cheese puffs.

Earlier that week my mom, sister and I made our regular trip to the discount supermarket, called No Frills. It was, as you’d imagine, completely devoid of frills. But it was also devoid of most name brands, instead focused on selling their cheery but traumatizing house brand called “No Name.” While cheaper, the products were packaged to elicit maximum status anxiety: bright yellow everything, with Helvetica titles that shouted “You’re Poor” regardless of what was inside. As we walked the aisles, I started putting stuff into the cart.

“Honey,” my mom said, “we can’t afford those fancy potato chips.”

She thought Lay’s were fancy, bless.

“Ok mom but I don’t want the kids to know we shop here,” I said, sweeping my arm around like a miffed Liberace.