The last time my high school chums got together to throw a going-away party for one of the members of our former clique, someone got stuffed in an industrial dryer, there were strippers, and a short police chase occurred (true story!). When another member of our ever- shrinking group recently decided to pull up roots and move to Eastern Washington, we decided to throw another epic party.

I've already started the night off with the party's honoree: Each of us has polished off a six-pack in my living room, expecting to catch a cab or a bus to the party from my apartment near Northgate.

Then it starts snowing.

We bundle up and decide to walk which, at the time, seems like a sound plan. "This is the best idea we've ever had," I slur, as we march toward Ballard, stopping every so often to sled on stray garbage can lids.

When we hit the two-mile mark, at 85th and Aurora, my feet are soaked and my buzz is wearing off. We sit at a bus stop for a while, but nothing ever comes and we trudge on.

After about two and a half hours, we reach our destination. We look like pissed-off snowmen.

"You guys are fucking idiots," one of our friends tells us. Then everyone except for the weird Canadian girl I lost my virginity to and a few other hangers-on gets up and leaves.

My friend and I turn around and walk back the way we came—eight miles, all told—dreaming up ways to kill every single one of our friends over the next few years. Some fucking party.

Want The Stranger to walk five miles uphill butt-naked in the snow to your house party? E-mail the place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.