I cannot EVEN tell you the joy it brought me when I read all of your guestbook entries and realized that I have a badass group of readers.
BAD-ass.
Your guestbook entries are so much more entertaining than my daily updates.
Lotta love.
*~*
So I read Gingi yesterday, and remembered that I funneled wine at the bar we were at on Tuesday night. That's nice. My mother would be so proud.
I also forgot to mention that I was entertaining the crowd at the bar, demonstrating my talent, which happens to be making shadow puppets. Laugh now, people. Laugh now. Because I will be laughing all the way to the bank one day when I am doing sold-out shadow puppet shows at Madison Square Garden with the Rolling Stones opening for me.
Muuuahhhhhhaahahahahahahaha (evil laugh).
So I woke up this morning and was digging through my messenger bag for some lippy. What did I find? A bizarre purchase from Tuesday night. It would appear that I purchased a gold lighter, that doubles as a switchblade. Good Lord, what was I thinking?
I just showed everyone at work and they were like, "Good Lord, Partygirl, you are going to seriously injure yourself with that some night. You are going to think you are lighting you cigarette and activate the blade and rip open your chin." I'm afraid they may be right.
I'm going to have to hide the lighter away from myself until I am old enough to use it. Which will probably be never.
*~*
Last night I took my friend out for a nice Italian dinner in the East Village. Only Partygirl prefers the East Village Italian to the Little Italy Italian. I can't deal with the old man fawning that ensues in Little Italy. It gets annoying and there's always a son or a cousin I should meet and the next thing I know some guido named Paulie or Jimmy has my number...not good.
So we went for dinner and drank wine. My friend is in her third week of chemo. She doesn't look so good. She said her hair is falling out and that they stopped giving her long term projects at work.
What's a girl supposed to say to that? And here I am, smoking at the table. I asked her if she minded, when I realized my faux paux, and she looked at me incredulously and said, "C'mon..." rolling her eyes. She's right, of course, meaning the worse has already happened and the second hand smoke of a cigarette is the least of her worries.
She asked me or maybe she merely stated aloud, "I must have really fucked up someone somewhere along the line for my Karma to be doing this to me. That's all I can think of because this is pretty bad."
I told her that I thought she was the lucky one, because in 40 years when I'm dragging a ventilator around, she'll be skipping the streets with a clean bill of health. She's getting it out of the way.
What else can you say? The doctors are telling her that survival rates are lower for women, the younger they are when diagnosed. I told her they are wrong, but what the fuck do I know?
The only thing that makes her feel better is pot and she said she's smoking like a fiend. I think it's totally F-ed up that cancer patients can't get medical marijuana anywhere except No. California. It's ludicrious. And it pisses me off.
I told her about a friend of mine in college, who saw an ad in the local paper placed by a middle-aged man whose wife was fighting cancer and he heard that pot subsided nausea and wanted to try it. He didn't know where to get it so he placed this totally desparate and cryptic ad.
My friend spotted it and we all felt terrible. So we chipped in and bought an ounce and dropped it off on their backdoor stoop.
I never heard what happened with that woman. I hope it helped.
She was eager to hear about the latest Partygirl adventures and they made her laugh. We agreed to go see some movies soon, since I've seen 1 film in the last 6 months or so.
*~*
Last night. Last night I dreamed about someone. It was a man. I can't remember who it was. But I woke up feeling... fulfilled.
Let me know if you can remember my dream.
K?
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