September 30th, 2006


I'm just saying that it's fuckin' dangerous to have a racecar in the fuckin' red

God, I'm just a fucking mess right now. I had ONE fucking goal of the evening: Get through it without smoking. Not that I'm necessarily worried about falling back into the habit - the fact that packs of cigarettes start at $6.75 and go up from there will ensure my living smoke-free as long as I'm living in New York. Of course, what did I do? I followed Henry and his friend up to the roof and bummed one!

Let's back up here. The night got underway with me in the bathroom, unzipping my fly and having it get caught on my wiener, drawing blood. Could there BE a more ominous way to lead into a party?

So, Julie Chen couldn't make it - saying that she had to work really late and all that. Which was fine; I actually managed to talk to a number of people last night. We were lacking in the Chicks department - and those who did show up were attached to fellas. I didn't mind though, I never do. I was actually kind of surprised at how well I did, socially speaking. I've only met three of the guys who showed up, but I managed to make the rounds fairly well, getting embroiled in numerous conversations about this, that, and the other.

Henry, the guy I mentioned above, is in this sketch-comedy group - I think I talked about that show I went to before. Anyway, Henry's great, he's really funny, and he brought everyone from the group to the party! I talked quite extensively with the lone girl of the comedy group (because all of those groups have to have one and only one girl - remember "The State", the show that used to be on MTV before it started sucking?) about living in New York and being creative and all that. Then, when she left to go talk to someone else, I bumped into the other fat guy of the group. Look, the theme here is the fact that I don't remember any names. Anyway, he's a Miami Dolphins fan, so we talked football for a while. That was cool. And Liz and I talked about the publishing industry (she used to be a reader for a literary agent like Jenny is now) and how much it sucks trying to get your foot in the door. Bottom line: I need to start entering writing contests and winning them. So, that's what I'm gonna do.

I bought two six-packs of Samuel Adams and one six-pack of Newcastle. Do you know how much that cost me? Twenty Eight FUCKING Dollars! I'm never shopping at that little grocery store across the street ever again.

I didn't eat dinner last night, that probably contributed to my level of intoxication. That and the fact that I had MUCH beer taken in really screwed me. I was up until at least 4am, when the last of the party-goers finally left. By the end of the night, I couldn't even formulate thoughts anymore. I'm serious! I was so drunk that, when I tried to tell a story that would've related to the conversation really well, I couldn't find the words to convey what I wanted to say! Like, I knew what they were talking about, I waited for my turn to speak, I said aloud, "Oh yeah! It's like this one time ..." and then I forgot what I wanted to say! And the guy sitting next to me said something like, "I know, sometimes it's hard to remember stuff."

I should've just cashed in and left the table right there, but no. That didn't stop me from, apparently, getting into drunken arguments with Liz about horror movies or something random (this, I do NOT remember). Nor did it stop me from interjecting in this debate these two guys were having over books or something. It was between Joe - Jenny's friend - and this bearded gentleman from the comedy group, who actually turned out to be a real pompous, know-it-all jackass. Well, at least during this instance. The guy just would not let the thing go and Joe, finally having heard enough, said, "OK, that's fine. It's over," and he walked over to the window and lit into a cigarette. Apparently, I felt it was up to me to stick up for Joe, but as soon as I started talking, I had this weird affectation to my voice. It was like I was doing a REALLY bad Woody Allen impression, but I couldn't help myself. And, all I managed to babble to this guy was how he sounded like a huge dick.

Anyway, I passed out on my futon - after being unable to manage turning the fucking thing into a bed - with my fitted sheet from the top half of the matress wrapped around my body like a mummy. Apparently, at 7 in the morning, I barged right into Emily's room - don't remember that one either - and saw where I was and said, "Oh! I'm sorry" and quickly closed the door again. OK, so when it gets to the point where I'm sleepwalking, that's a bad sign.

I don't know why, but I set my alarm for 1pm today. When I heard that shit, I turned it off and slept in until a quarter to four. I think I'm going to White Castle now because I'm hungry and don't want to make anything.

The end.
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