Conversations don't really happen at these parties, I've learned. Not in the normal sense. Everyone's pacing about and looking for the best place to be. Everyone's milling around and posturing. And absolutely everyone is fiddling with their cell phones. These aren't regular cell phones, either; they have colourful widescreens and embedded keyboards and are quite obviously the most captivating digital gadgets in the universe. I saw people sitting next to each other on a couch, communicating with one another exclusively via text messages.

Sarah shoves her drink into my hand - "Hold-this," she says - and digs through her purse, removing a palm-sized supercomputer of her own. She starts typing away, blithering: "I-can't-believe-him-what-is-his-problem-I-really-can't-deal-with-this-right-now."

"Hi-I'm-Toby," says Sarah's girlfriend. "We-were-just-in-the-bathroom-and-I-was-choking
-on-a-mint-so-Sarah-this-is-my-best-friend-Sarah-we've-known-each-other-since-we-were
-five-years-old-anyway-I-was-choking-on-this-mint-and-Sarah-had-to-give-me-mouth-to
-mouth-or-I'm-sure-I-would've-died."

Some big, greasy oaf brushes up against Sarah and she yells: "Uno!"

"I love that card game," I say, just trying to get a word in edgewise.

"What?" asks Toby, resting a hand on my chest and leaning in close enough for me to smell the mint on her breath. "No-no-no-when-some-sweaty-guy-touches-us-we-step-back-and
-wave-our-fingers-and-yell-Uno."

"Why Uno?"

"No," she stammers. Sarah's still talking away with her fingers and Toby straightens up, shuts her eyes, takes in a deep breath and says as slowly as she can muster: "Eww. No."

"Oh!"

Then Sarah takes her drink from my hand and walks off, Toby in tow.

I looked to Bonnie and we agreed it was time to go. We were now thoroughly out of our element.