So I offered to billet people attending this conference as a service to the local queer community and my friends who are organizing it. I like having guests, including houseguests, and I think I’m a cordial host. I trucked out to the airport at considerable expense to pick you up, I provided helpful information for the city, I bought you metro tickets so you could get around before you got a pass, and I was friendly and engaging with you and your friend. Besides vacating my bed, cooking for you, and otherwise disrupting my life and my schedule so that you can have somewhere to stay when you’re attending this conference.
That being the case, and with the assumption that you are a thinking, feeling human being with social skills superior to those of a rabid badger, I really can’t wait for an explanation of tonight’s behaviour, because this is going to be epic.
I don’t know how it works in Butt Fuck Nowhere, British Columbia, but in the big city, when we go to a party with people who are assumed to have some sort of reasonable stock in where we end up that night, such as those at whose house we are crashing, it’s considered the done thing to let the person know where the fuck you are going when you decide to leave.
What that means is, rather than abruptly vanishing in the middle of the party with no hint as to where you might be going, you actually speak to the person when you decide to leave. Such as “I’m ready to leave now” or “I’m gonna head out, feel free to stay for a while longer” or even “I’m going home with that guy, see you.” Why? Because that way, you don’t force your host, who has provided hospitably for your comfort, to spend a half-a-fucking-hour waiting for your ass and another half-a-fucking-hour looking for you!!
Seriously, I can’t wait to see what you come up with, and you had better fucking grovel when you’re telling it to me, because queen, syphilitic hyenas have better club manners than that. Jesus Christ.