There was work. then there was a week overdue shower. then there was two blondes snorting line’s of aderoll in my living room.
Rewind two hours when I took a dinner break at work and left my wallet in the ‘office’ so I reached in my bag for the closest thing for an evening meal- a ciggy. Outside the twinkling melodies of Christmas music I stood their like the grinch of christmas past, swaddled in a vintage Paris sherling that still smelled like the March aux Puces thrift bucket I salvaged it from. My 8 hour adderoll comedown was revamped and safe to say I had not eaten a damn thing. Flashforward- and this aderoll, lined up on the table all pretty, is my evening’s gasolina.
So we jet from my apt to pick up a protein bar on the way downtown so I can binge drink more substantially, although it was never consumed. I get to the party and the energies are there. Ponytail boy toy quickly finds me to grab my two bottle tickets, and I demand the VIP table from the manager. ‘But i want you ladies at my image table!’ the small one in the front of the room. baby- please! I can’t fit in the crew if we ain’t in the VIP. We get my desired table and droves of fools and tools from this and that enter the playing field. Game on. To my man eating delight I’m surrounded by a buffet of delicious selections, some dry aged, some already tasted, other like fresh from the butcher shop. Who’s this hot autralian with 20K insta followers who’s like way too nice? or the wine maker/ mafia family son in expensive wool? The hot jewish fashion boy who I last ate gnocchi with at bar pitti? The thirty some who i popped molly with at electric room last summer. Troves and droves I tell you! I was really mixing up la salade tonight.
I have my whole team w me- bitches and my forest of mythical lady beings from all walks of life. I’m getting wasted- we are on our second bottle of vodka and I’m also being bought coups of veuve cliquot by ex party boy, now sober sally, now college drop out, now successful entrepreneur who may very well be younger than I. We’ll call him the Fonz. He captivates my intrigue and lord knows I’m this shameless social butterfly when drunk. I’ll ditch dates, friends, parties, for that intriguing spark of an often absurd and preposterous suitor- just because ‘I need to know was sup w dat’.
The party calms, and me and my mate- pony tail boy ruthlessly ditch everyone to pick up a blonde package from one night club- yes Marylin, where we soon enter the land of drug den euro trash exclusivity. People from my former party had ended all over the map in meatpacking and we run into a few heads. I’m thrust back into my old stomping grounds when I leave the cafe to the nightclub at the venue. In normal practice, I’m being attacked by man flesh- handed dime bags of white stuff which I respectfully decline here and there- I’ve been off the stuff. And I jump about form table to table sipping champagne in belligerence.
We shut the motherfucker down. Something I’m embarrassed to admit is a regular occurence- when you go, ya go. And to this credit I’ve met many notable Djs through my 5 am perseverance. Tonight was no exception but this DJ was a no-name from Paris- but who knows, my girlfriend partied for a weekend with some scrubby DJ in the Hamptons and the next year he was Calvin Harris! (true story) I grab his contact and we go to the sketchiest dirties most illegal after party I’ve hit in a hot minute. I’m joined by ponytail- how’d this dude manage to linger on this long? Can’t remember.
Underground a NYC squeaky clean brunch joint of all places, they are running the sketchiest of operations downstairs. I’m talking a few eastern European women, Bongos- what?(yes the instrument), pre made cocktails- uh roofies at 7 am anyone? and just a handful of attendees- more like one hand, like the number of fingers on your hand, occupy the large space. WHERE AM I. I’m reeled into another business convo about the opening of a new venue down in alphabet city. ‘You would be an asset’. They want it to be small with one classy burlesque dancer. UHM by the looks of this joint class is the last realm of possibility. Pony tail and I get into a bathroom. It’s me and three dudes and it’s not my ideal station. The dudes exit and a Russian blonde replaces them and proceeds to pee and tell me about her problems. I’m expiring, but wired and strangely, I’m getting less weirded out by this all.
Ponytail and I take a good look at one another- time to hit it. We exit, buy a pack of 27’s, unacknowledge what that was, and decide to have a sleepover. Like a literal cuddle session where we talk it all out until 9 am. My crackly cigarette voice gives it’s last few croaky wisdoms to this coming of age boy, and I tell him to put his ass to sleep. I wake up the next day to a OMFG horror of a missed once in a lifetime doctor appointment, insist and squeeze myself in, and nab that coveted prescription-WIN. Why of all places is this in the Historic 15 Gramercy Park arts club? I’m too turnt still to process it all, I haven’t eaten a meal in 30 hours, there was no sleep last night, and I’m being given an incredible eye witness history lesson from this psychiatrist that I know I won’t be able to recall. But hey I pat myself on the fucking back for these characteristic and scrappy hungover victories. Oh fuck, I remember pony boy lies in bed. I call him up to say- hey sorry uhm yeah not returning and decline his invitation to the dirty Russian Baths on the Lower east where ‘we can massage one another’. Instead, I look through my contacts and where I’ve been beckoned, and I meet Fanzo at the Trump Soho for an afternoon of expensive brunching and la duree. Pick and choose your battles, your after parties, who will take you for Sunday brunch.
