I’m very touched that my gorgeous, smart, and stylish friend Anki, who just happens to be an MTV superstar in Europe, blogged the party night…
Thank you, thank you everyone for the lovely birthday messages. I have the nicest friends on the planet. And a GIANT hug thank you to the friends who came out on Thursday, you are the real deal. I have a super cool new Joey Ramone doll, a bottle of jack, t-shirts, a ton of expensive chocolate (eating one now!) a beautiful pendant, a gorgeous scarf, and a Pez dispenser full of…erm…not Pez! Woo hoo! You guys rawk and I really appreciate it.
Drew made me promise not to blog some really funny bits (protecting the not so innocent), so I’ll just leave you with the text aftermath:
“I just woke up with a peanut/hummus sandwich beside me. Peanut/hummus! Wtf?”
“I woke up today and the dog had clothes on, Elle crashed over, and blocks of cheese were spread around my kitchen.”
“I never do tequila again.” (Japanese)
“I have no idea who that was and I don’t remember getting home. Do you think I had sex with him in the bathroom? What time did I leave?”
“I love you. I’m so goddamn hungover.”
I am not necessarily advocating getting trashed, yesterday evening in my hungover state I watched Celebrity Rehab and every time I see Steven Adler I want to move back to Michigan, go on a raw food diet and never touch alcohol again. But it’s nice to know that my friends had fun, which was really the point. And I like mixing it up–my swishy co-worker Sushi in a tiny hat (yes Tommy, my life is still being ruled by tiny hats, it’s some weird past life curse) making friends take his photo with a Hells Angel, members of Drew’s various bands all eyeing each other up suspiciously, and the hot girls I work with assessing the male population from their back table vantage point. It’s people stew. The fashion gays I work with hated every awesome rock tune that Poker Chris spun and that brought me great joy because those prissy ladies torture me all day long with soul-crushing mash-ups and Madonna mixes. Queens of the Stone Age, bitches!
Although honestly, that’s become a term my Madonna-loving friend Paolo uses all too frequently–“How’s my favorite queen of the stone age, Myrtle?”…Sigh…well, at least if one must go down, she can go down having fun. Thanks, everyone!