Don't go in there!

I seem to be getting into the habit of having a very ruckus Friday night, followed by not moving from the apartment Saturday and Sunday (with the exception of rehearsal).

I've gotten busted. Remember my funny little quiz? Well, someone found it. You can comment on the quiz and I got two notices in my mailbox that said your a bitch. Which, though grammatically incorrect, I suppose is right on the money. I was bitchy with that. But more importantly, I meant it to be funny. Ah well. The only people I would need to worry about would be ones that I might run into in the city, which is Mahdi and Sleazy. It couldn't be Sleazy, he would never misspell anything, particularly if he was trying to be mean. And that leaves Mahdi, who I never see and don't particularly care one way or the other what he thinks about me.

It does hurt to be called a bitch. I hope it wasn't Eric (though I was pretty nice to him on the quiz). All the same, I deleted the quiz.

So that was that.

Friday I hung out with the boys (Daniel, Ryan, Cliff, and Cliff's Michael Howard friend Pablo--who I gave a lap dance to on his 21st birthday). We got stupid drunk, purchased a jug of wine that we proceeded to chug on the L train out to Pablo's to smoke pot. We cleverly called the jug of wine our "thesis paper" so that passing this thing back and forth wasn't anything illegal, you know, like drinking in public. I'm sure we had everyone on the train fooled. Yup. Chugging red wine on the L.

[Danger! Danger! Oh, why can we never see the signs?]

I was fine because I stopped drinking once I started smoking. Ryan and Daniel were not so lucky. Daniel threw up. Then Ryan threw up with such intensity, his retching shook the foundation of the house. I tried to stay as far away from that as possible, preferring to smoke myself silly. Ryan was occupying the bathroom, so I ran out into a Brooklyn street to pee.

[Smart. Very smart.]

I pass out on a very uncomfortable couch, trying to block out the sounds of Ryan. Seriously. I've never heard such sounds in my life, it was like The Exorcist. He wasn't just sick, he was fighting for his soul.

We wake up early on Saturday, Ryan still wasted and all of us not knowing where the fuck in Brooklyn we are. I love waking up confused and in Brooklyn. We hobble around the city, which was actually quite lovely that early in the morning and not that cold. We stop by their place to smoke pot and drop off our stuff and proceed to the nearest diner.

Daniel and I are stoned and not too hungover; we eat like it's going out of style. Ryan looked green. Daniel and I would look over at him with sympathy, but not enough to let him leave while we ate our feast.

I leave them and head back to my apartment, where I pass out for a few hours. Devon leaves to go hang out with our friend Allison, and I am left in my stupor with the place to myself. I watch the 100 Scariest Moments in Film on Bravo, followed by A Nightmare on Elm Street (the original being my favorite) and The Omen. I stay up until 5 am doing this. Funny how the night I got wasted I passed out at like 1 or 2 and on my quiet night, I'm up until 5. Ah well. This is my life.

Sunday was rehearsal. That was fine. Liz had this bag of Starburst that she and I wolfed down, so much that I felt very twitchy and sugar-high. That's why I generally avoid sweets like that. When they're little and bite-sized, I will not stop until I make myself sick. Luckily, we ran out of Starburst before I could do some serious insulin damage to myself.

Another weekend. Blurry in places and being called a bitch by the end of it. Yup. Par for the course.