I am kneeling in Jen’s living room in the dark, wearing a Hanson t-shirt, AFI sweatpants, and waiting for a Nytol to kick in. I started this day in a Victorian from shirt and 4-inch heels. Perhaps we should back up?
I left the house (still feels weird to type HOUSE) 13 hours ago. Went to Black 13 to feel out a tattoo guy, then went to Lone Wolf Franklin to check out another. I got the best feeling off of the guy at Black 13, so I guess my as-yet-official tattoo guy is named Steve Martin (which makes me chuckle). I’m going to concoct something in Illustrator, email it to him, and he’s going to tell me what he can make better. Come March 14, I’ll have a permanent black bow tied around my right wrist.
After picking out a tattoo guy, I went to Rivergate Mall to vulturize the going out of business sale at Waldenbooks. While there, two dudes complimented me on my outfit and one of those hit on me with reckless abandon. I appreciate this trend, though I have no freaking clue where it’s coming from. Am I giving off pheromones that make me visible? Does losing ten pounds bring out my cheekbones THAT much? Is the flashing red “virgin” sign about my head broken? Have I developed some bizarre form of subconscious confidence by losing said ten pounds and/or pointing a camera at myself? Who the hell knows, but it seems I can scarcely leave the house without some dude talking to me.
This is lovely and flattering, but it makes life damn weird when I have to explain why I’ve developed the disposition of a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I don’t know how to say “somebody gnawed a chunk out of me, which was followed closely by somebody else gnawing a chunk out of me, and I can’t even handle my porn collection right now, much less an actual person” without making Random Dude feel really awkward. There’s no quick, non-messy way to explain, so I just stutter like Ozzy and stare at their shoes.
After Waldenbooks, I wandered the rest of the mall. A couple of 12 year old girls in Wet Seal simultaneously gasped and squealed “you’re awesome!” at me. With no sarcasm. Am I being punk’d? Is 12 too young an age for me to think they were high? Should I make today’s outfit my official job interview outfit, since people seem to like it so damn much? I thought for a second about whipping out my video camera and asking the girls to re-enact the scene, but I’m thinking that would have been weird. What really stopped me from doing it is that I didn’t think they’d be able to give me realism. The weird ship was halfway across the Atlantic.
After the mall, I went over to Jen’s for pre-party cupcake-making and had to run to Wal-Mart for eggs, at which point the security guy asked where I’d gotten my outfit (honestly….wtf?). “Well, the shoes are from ebay, and the socks are from Halloween and….oh never mind.”
Everyone who likes Jaegermeister eventually ends up with a “and then I got really sick on it, and now I can’t drink it anymore” story. Let’s just say that I believe Jen wrote her chapter tonight. Luckily, there were some party guests who were a little better at handling a person who’s got 5 inches and a few pounds on me. “If you go down, all I can do is slow you down…so please, don’t go down.” I don’t know the progression of trashed-ness beyond “gets really quiet and will probably hurl” because I usually leave the party during the “it’s starting to get weird” phase. “Is it safe? Is she gonna sleep now, or is she gonna keep trying to walk around?” Jesus, drunk people are like zombies. “Just stay down!”
She’s asleep in the other room and I have made do by hijacking a shower and some PJs. While looking through the copious amounts of t-shirts in her closet, I ran across her vintage Hanson shirt, complete with “Mmmbop” written across the back. The hilarity of me wearing this shirt will have to wait until tomorrow, when Jen wakes to find me scrunched up on her couch and gets to hear the gruesome account of her “…and now I don’t drink Jaeger” story.