Last week, my brother turned 13 and he had this big birthday party where he took all of his friends to play laser tag. He also invited me and my boyfriend Jhon because we’re a great addition to parties. And we add that whole token practically married loser couple element to any gathering. And he needed people to chauffeur his friends around.

So we get there. After driving for two hours. With obnoxious kids who made fun of my musical taste. And called my unshaved legs “gross.” (For the record, it was like, a millimeter of stubble, and WHY WOULD I SHAVE MY LEGS TO BASICALLY PLAY TAG IN THE DARK WITH A BUNCH OF KIDS? WOULDN’T THAT BE WEIRDER?) Anyway, then we had to pick out “codenames” for the scoreboard of our incoming battle. I called myself MyLittlePwny, which Jhon later pointed out was hilarious because I didn’t “pwn” anyone. At one point, I actually had -55 points. I don’t even know.

But then we get home and things start to unravel very quickly.

First of all, I notice this distinct pile of Cheetos on the carpet where the boys are “socializing” by playing solo video games, watching YouTube videos with their headphones on, seeing what’s on TV, and texting people who aren’t there. I pass by it. Watch a movie. 3 hours later, it’s still there. Not only is it still there, but the kids are sitting right next to it. Eating Cheetos out of the bag.

Sometimes I do this thing where I try to be a cooler version of myself, i.e., I evaluate the situation and then do the complete opposite of what I would normally do. I want to be the calm and chill one, but I know that I’m that girl — the one who ruptures ear drums over the sight of a spider. So, to play it cool, I walk by again and go use the bathroom. Except there is pee all over the toilet seat. And inside the toilet.

In the span of a minute, I’ve graduated from feeling like WHO RAISED THESE KIDS to WHY ARE THEY STILL IN MY HOUSE. So I’m like, “Hey. HEY. Have any of you used the bathroom lately? Because you didn’t flush and you left a surprise all over the seat for the next person.” And this kid kind of glances at me and is like, “Oh, sorry,” and then goes back to playing his game, as if someone else was going to come and clean it up for him. So I’m like, “Well, it’s STILL THERE for you to clean up.” And then I focus on my next target: Cheetos guy. I’m like, “This pile of Cheetos has seriously been here for four hours,” and he’s like, “Yeah, I spilled them,” and I’m like, “Do you want to pick them up?” and he’s like, “Yeah.” Like it never occurred to him that leaving your spilled food on the floor of someone else’s house wasn’t looked upon with admiration and gratefulness.

I go find Jhon and appoint him my therapist by telling him everything that is wrong with those children and everything that is wrong with parenting and everything that is wrong with THE WORLD and why we should never have kids. “Never EVER,” I said. And he was basically like, yeah, okay, you’re overreacting, everything’s cleaned up, there was no permanent damage.

But then the next morning, our electric keyboard wasn’t working. Because someone left it on and spilled a drink all over it. That someone then tried to mop up what was on top of most of the keys. And then that someone left without telling anyone that THEY MIGHT HAVE JUST BROKEN IT.

Somewhere in between watching the liquid drip off of the keys and realizing the culprit had just fled the scene of the crime, we found a moment to glance at each other and exchange a look that very clearly said never. Never EVER.