Because hello, it’s Purim. And the seudah. We come as guests and listen to bochurim cry

I love Purim. It's unbridled fun and chaos.

Candy for breakfast, chips for lunch, soda for supper. I daven earlier than we ever do in school so as not to miss a minute of this great day. Mishloach manos and more mishloach manos, chocolate and candy, a cake or two. Costumes (I go as myself, mostly, though I do experiment with more makeup than I’m allowed otherwise) music, that spray foam thingy, and the ubiquitous firecrackers.

A couple of drunken people, but nothing I can’t handle. I don’t handle them, actually, my mother does, cleaning up after some of the ones who got carried away, while I go to another room. We eat in yeshivah, and I grow up on stories about how beautiful drunk bochurim are—I watch them cry on my father’s shoulder, wishing they would learn more, daven more, become better people.

There are four mitzvos on Purim, and I’ve got them bagged: Megillah is an easy one. Matanos l’evyonim means giving a couple of dollars to my father to add to whatever he’s giving. I love delivering mishloach manos for my mother and drive off with the music blasting, going just a bit too fast for our suburban streets, because hello, it’s Purim. And the seudah. We come as guests and listen to bochurim cry.