cloaked in despair
Valentine's Day. I wore all black on Monday, but I was cloaked in despair just the same. Mainly I was hung over. I just don't recover as well as I used to, or maybe I really overdid it this time. It's not usually a good sign when I wake up still dressed in the same outfit that I wore to go out the night before or the same makeup, only smeared in some places, partially rubbed off in others.
One of the younger security guards in my building asked me last week what I was doing for Valentine's Day, and if I had a Valentine. I keep forgetting how young kids are and he was shocked that I wasn't turning cartwheels over Valentine's Day. Oops, was I too jaded and cynical just then? "So what if you don't have a Valentine's," he said, "you have all weekend to find one." Yeah. I am so glad I was never that young.
Sunday night I went out with two girlfriends (one very dear), a tag-along acquaintance (sad, loud, brassy, deeply insecure hausfrau from OC) and My Drug Buddy, all chauffeured by a lame poser wannabe rockstar, who dressed like the bastard child of Michael Jackson circa 1988 and that guy from A Flock of Seagulls, on Mr. Potatohead's body. So not sexy, yet he begged to differ. Thank Buddha for My Drug Buddy.
We went to a birthday party at Rage in West Hollywood. My Drug Buddy and I blazed while everyone got all diva. My girlfriends had been looking forward to this night in a long time and had the hair, makeup and clothing to show for it. I threw on heavy eye makeup, wore some tight jeans circa 1976 and a full-length leather coat with fur trim, channeled Diane Von Furstenberg and brought the girls out for a night on the town. I don't usually do that anymore. I'm still reeling from the after-effects of the last time I brought them out for show and tell, my 20th high school reunion. I'm still getting harassing phone calls from jealous wives and girlfriends. But out they came. It was time.
After several bottles of champagne and a packed pipe, we decided that none of us were in any sort of condition to drive, so the sad hausfrau called the lame wannabe rockstar to chauffeur us around. At one point during the evening, he told me I received "four stars on the cleavage." Gee, I can't tell you how much that means to me coming from a fire hydrant with hands. Thank God My Drug Buddy brought Vicodin. Half a 750mg pill and a shot of Ketel One later, it was better. Then these lame straight people from the OC suburbs came in. I thought we went to Rage for a reason, then it starts to look like that place on top of the hill at CityWalk, the Saddle Ranch. Thank Allah My Drug Buddy had a joint and the place had a patio. A few minutes later, she was making out with a go-go dancer and groping my cleavage. I don't remember the rest of the evening, not that the earlier part was that memorable. I was bored and wished I were home in bed.
I woke up after three hours of sleep and felt like someone had stuck a cotton sock in my mouth while I slept. I went to bed early Monday night, attempting to recover from my night of excess. Excess alcohol, drugs, and boredom. I should have gone ahead with my performance art piece in the Valentine's display aisle of Rite Aid instead.
One of the younger security guards in my building asked me last week what I was doing for Valentine's Day, and if I had a Valentine. I keep forgetting how young kids are and he was shocked that I wasn't turning cartwheels over Valentine's Day. Oops, was I too jaded and cynical just then? "So what if you don't have a Valentine's," he said, "you have all weekend to find one." Yeah. I am so glad I was never that young.
Sunday night I went out with two girlfriends (one very dear), a tag-along acquaintance (sad, loud, brassy, deeply insecure hausfrau from OC) and My Drug Buddy, all chauffeured by a lame poser wannabe rockstar, who dressed like the bastard child of Michael Jackson circa 1988 and that guy from A Flock of Seagulls, on Mr. Potatohead's body. So not sexy, yet he begged to differ. Thank Buddha for My Drug Buddy.
We went to a birthday party at Rage in West Hollywood. My Drug Buddy and I blazed while everyone got all diva. My girlfriends had been looking forward to this night in a long time and had the hair, makeup and clothing to show for it. I threw on heavy eye makeup, wore some tight jeans circa 1976 and a full-length leather coat with fur trim, channeled Diane Von Furstenberg and brought the girls out for a night on the town. I don't usually do that anymore. I'm still reeling from the after-effects of the last time I brought them out for show and tell, my 20th high school reunion. I'm still getting harassing phone calls from jealous wives and girlfriends. But out they came. It was time.
After several bottles of champagne and a packed pipe, we decided that none of us were in any sort of condition to drive, so the sad hausfrau called the lame wannabe rockstar to chauffeur us around. At one point during the evening, he told me I received "four stars on the cleavage." Gee, I can't tell you how much that means to me coming from a fire hydrant with hands. Thank God My Drug Buddy brought Vicodin. Half a 750mg pill and a shot of Ketel One later, it was better. Then these lame straight people from the OC suburbs came in. I thought we went to Rage for a reason, then it starts to look like that place on top of the hill at CityWalk, the Saddle Ranch. Thank Allah My Drug Buddy had a joint and the place had a patio. A few minutes later, she was making out with a go-go dancer and groping my cleavage. I don't remember the rest of the evening, not that the earlier part was that memorable. I was bored and wished I were home in bed.
I woke up after three hours of sleep and felt like someone had stuck a cotton sock in my mouth while I slept. I went to bed early Monday night, attempting to recover from my night of excess. Excess alcohol, drugs, and boredom. I should have gone ahead with my performance art piece in the Valentine's display aisle of Rite Aid instead.
posted by celia at 1:28 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home