The past two weeks have been the most stressful at work yet. Since you precious people have to get your weekly magazines EVERY WEEK, we’ve been working three times as hard to put out three issues in 10 day to make up for the days we’re going to lose for Christmas and New Years. But today has been mysteriously boring as shit. Maybe it’s the weather. Currently Mother Nature is crapping all sorts of frozen shit on us. Some call it a “wintry mix.”
Things accomplished today: free pizza in Conference Room B! went to Jack’s 99 Cent Store and got LiveStrong-esque bracelets with Jay the photo editor. They’re red and say “BFF” in script flanked by candy canes, currently playing the “questions” game with my sister via gchat, and general slack-assery et al. Oh, here’s some shit—the magazine I work for is having their “Holiday Party” today and the Art Department isn’t invited! What the fuck is that? Literally every other department is invited except for us! I can hear them laughing and cheering as they open their Secret Santa gifts as I type. I love a good Secret Santa! Whatever…I don’t need our magazine’s half-hearted attempt at a holiday party (who has their company party in the middle of the day? Where’s the open bar?) I have a friend who works for Inc. Magazine and I’m being her hot date to their proper company party downtown tonight, followed by a sample sale on the Upper West Side. SO I DON’T NEED YOUR HALF-ASSED COMPANY PARTY ANYWAY FUCKTARDS!...now I have to go quietly cry in the corner.
So, my drinking career is going backwards. I started drinking early in High School and I never once puked, blacked out, or made a sloppy decision under the influence. That was when I was 15. Now I’m 22 and I can’t drink without puking, blacking out and making a sloppy decision(s). Let’s talk about this past Friday night.
Friday my dear friends Anna and Jill came to visit. So Friday night myself, Anna, Jill, Blair and Serena went to a housewarming party on Roosevelt Island. I didn’t know the hostesses, they are friends of my roommates, but I love a good party full of random people, so I was in. The actual party was pretty fun. I gots to chatting with a small group of random people and found myself asking them all the story of losing their virginities (also asking the guys how long they lasted; average answer: 1 minute) and other inappropriate questions one does not generally ask upon the first meeting. I think that should be the default icebreaker conversation, “how did you lose your virginity?” Because you meet someone and you do the “Oh how do you know blah blah? What do you do? Where did you go to school?” And you don’t remember any of it, nor do you really care about the answers. But I will remember Erick the 23 year old who lost his virginity in his best friends bed and lasted “about 3 minutes” until the day I die.
Much alcohol was consumed, that’s a given. Because I’m working backwards in my alcohol career, lots of mixing of beers/alcohols (clear, brown, champagne) were consumed, so I was properly drunk. When it was time to leave the party (one man down, poor Blair didn’t make it home, opting to puke in a bucket and pass out on the floor instead) Jill and Anna exited with some guy who’s name I do not remember (but he lost his virginity in a nice hotel in the city with a girl he had been dating for a while and lasted “60 seconds max”) and his girlfriend. As they were walking down the hall to the elevator, Jill simply said, “Make sure you take care of your girlfriend, I think she’s pretty drunk.” Now there is no malice in that statement. The girl spent the entire party passed out on a bed in a drunken stupor. Facts are facts. This statement somehow pissed this random girl off, as she snapped out of her blacked out state, ran out of the elevator and slapped Jill across the face. In a “I KNOW YOU DID’NT” moment, Anna and Jill started clawing at the girl in the elevator who was being protected by her boyfriend. That’s when I exit the party and see this scene playing out. Being the good Samaritan I am, I ran up to see what was going on, realized some sort of fight was ensuing and put myself between the crazy couple in the elevator and my friends. I turned sideways, looking at my friends and said “Hey what’s goi---“ and that’s when the crazy bitch in the elevator punched me in my right eye. I got punched! I’ve never been hit in my entire life! And she was a size zero hipster dump! The shock of this flew me to my ass. As I lay there, I saw the elevator doors start to close. It was at that point I remembered my family motto (“Never fuck with a ::insert my last name here::””, said “NOPE,” got my ass up, grabbed the elevator door just as it was about to close, and like Superman, pried it open. I started charging furiously at the hipster she-dump before some random guy grabbed me and held me back Jerry Springer style.
It gets better, order another round.
After this debacle, we decide to run to the subway and try to catch the fucktards and give them a beating they wouldn’t forget. I ran ahead of the group, as I am in full diva don’t fuck with me mode, and ended up at the end of the subway platform alone. Alas! Those assholes got away. I stood there defeated. I turned around to see a group of thugs staring back at me. “Some dumb bitch punched me and I was trying to catch her so I can beat her ass in!” I explained to the head hood. I was met with sympathetic “Shit girl”s. They turned out to be really cool people! They informed me I had a “runny mascara situation” where I had been hit and I sassily told them not to worry about it. Then one of the thugs looked at me and said, “So we gonna smoke this blunt or not?” to which I said, “Spark that shit up! Pass that shit to me!” to which he said, “SHIT GIRL, there’s an established circle, you new to the crew, wait yo turn!” to which I said “Well then hurry up and light that shit!” And then I smoked a blunt with my newfound thugalicious friends. Soon my friends caught up and we boarded our subway home. It turns out that copious amounts of various alcohols, found drugs, and a rocking subway car do not make for a good time. It was at Smith and 9th street that I calmly exited the train and threw up in a well-placed trashcan. Thank you MTA. The next thing I remember is lying in my bed thinking “Well that’s not a good sign” as Jill told me how big to open my mouth and I struggled to accommodate the small piece of cake she was trying to feed me. I was hung-over well into the next night. Oye.
I find myself saying this more and more, but I’ll say it again for good measure: only me.
Sha la la!