My Party -- Pop!

At my party we'll fill the ceiling with thousands of balloons. The taller people will stoop and stir their drinks with their noses. When they laugh, they'll snort their cocktails or pop, and the floor will get sticky with drool drops (one part vodka, one part simple syrup, dash of drool). Under balloons, the shorter people's hair will stand on end, but we'll put hats on ugly scalps. We'll have a popcorn maker, buttery topping, and a bongo. No, two bongos. And we'll invite Pop with his needle-short words and his long delicate smile. I love Pop. He'll leave early. At midnight we'll pop-POP a thousand balloons, then take the rest to do helium shots and to squeak our minds like chipmunks. At sunrise we'll flop, maybe loving a litter nine months later.