Two tapped kegs float in my bathtub, a three-boobed alien blow-up doll slowly deflates on the floor of my efficiency, enough squirt guns to terrorize a soccer team are piled in my dish rack, half of a birthday cake is melting to my stove, a space princess stripped to her silver skirt and furry moonboots is blanketed in my hand-bedazzled flight-suit, and no matter how hard I scrub, I keep finding flecks of glitter on me. These are the spoils one accrues after hosting a party for a hundred astronauts and aquanauts.
Secretly, I've always wanted a surprise party. I've spent most of my birthdays hoping to walk into a room full of lovely women yelling surprise, someone to crown me with a tiara so everyone knows it's my day and enough beer to sink a ship. I've spent just as many years being disappointed. The only time I'll ever have a surprise party is when I'm old and too senile to remember it's my birthday. Lesson learned: If you want to have a kick-ass birthday party, you have to throw it yourself.
So that's what I did. I was overwhelmed by all the prominent space and sea adventurers who showed up: Dr. Spock, Poseidon, Kuato from Total Recall, a crew of pirates, a parrot fish, a clown fish, an intergalactic hitchhiker, a merman with a starfish bra, a space cowboy and more space sluts than you'll find at an interstellar truck-stop. Those who were too cool to dress up had the option of buying uniforms printed by Blue Lucy which read, "Team Zissou: Unpaid Intern" or being shot with squirt guns the entire night.