On New Year's Eve, I submerged my phone in water. I deleted all my phone numbers, spent an obscene amount of money on a new device, and was lost to the outside world for an several days (which felt like an eternity). ...just call me Mary Catherine, because I am a superstar... When I emailed everyone to let them know, the reaction was a strong and resounding, "You go girl!" Although that was not at all what happened.
Ironically, I did go to a party. And, in fact, it was at a crazy-gorgeous mansion in LaJolla overlooking the Pacific Ocean. No doubt the fanciest place I have ever been. (I finally understand why people marry for money.) We partied on the terrace which contained a hot tub, a pool and a fire pit. Inside the mansion were literally dozens of bedrooms, bathrooms, flatscreens, antiques and a full-bar. My every wish was waiting to be fulfilled - I'm sure if I requested, a midget would have come out and poured shots down my throat.
Nevertheless, fun was not destined to occur, due to the fact that the party was hosted by a tight-ass little nerd. What happened? Here's an example: Guest brings a beer bottle out onto the terrace. Nerd reaction: "Don't break the glass!" Guest sets a beverage down without a coaster. Nerd reaction: "Don't leave a ring on the table!" Try to have sex in the kitchen. Nerd reaction: ... kidding... just kidding, people. Later I learned the house...was his parent's. (Of course it was.) My anticipation of life like a queen for the evening was quickly destroyed.
This is so indicative of January. Every year I start my "clean slate" by freezing my ass off and chasing it down with a hangover. The month is miserable -- we start dieting, thinking about tax returns, paying off crazy Christmas credit card bills... I only have six weeks to find a date for Valentine's Day. It always sucks. Yet we do it every year . And every year, the anticipation of that "new start" never lives up to our expectations.
Even my phone-killing story did not fail to disappoint. When my friend Michael learned about the death of the cell, he sent me a diatribe about his vision of my evening - lots of bubbly, teetering high heels, excessive cleavage, (why are gay men so obsessed with boobs?) and dangerous flirtation, followed by an entangled fall into the hot tub. Almost all of my friends replied to the cell-killing email announcement with a "I gotta hear this one" response. ...And the reality? My water bottle dumped in my gym bag, hence killing the phone. Example #712 of how anticipation is so much better than the reality.
But if you see Michael, please don't tell him. It would break his creative little heart.
Ironically, I did go to a party. And, in fact, it was at a crazy-gorgeous mansion in LaJolla overlooking the Pacific Ocean. No doubt the fanciest place I have ever been. (I finally understand why people marry for money.) We partied on the terrace which contained a hot tub, a pool and a fire pit. Inside the mansion were literally dozens of bedrooms, bathrooms, flatscreens, antiques and a full-bar. My every wish was waiting to be fulfilled - I'm sure if I requested, a midget would have come out and poured shots down my throat.
Nevertheless, fun was not destined to occur, due to the fact that the party was hosted by a tight-ass little nerd. What happened? Here's an example: Guest brings a beer bottle out onto the terrace. Nerd reaction: "Don't break the glass!" Guest sets a beverage down without a coaster. Nerd reaction: "Don't leave a ring on the table!" Try to have sex in the kitchen. Nerd reaction: ... kidding... just kidding, people. Later I learned the house...was his parent's. (Of course it was.) My anticipation of life like a queen for the evening was quickly destroyed.
This is so indicative of January. Every year I start my "clean slate" by freezing my ass off and chasing it down with a hangover. The month is miserable -- we start dieting, thinking about tax returns, paying off crazy Christmas credit card bills... I only have six weeks to find a date for Valentine's Day. It always sucks. Yet we do it every year . And every year, the anticipation of that "new start" never lives up to our expectations.
Even my phone-killing story did not fail to disappoint. When my friend Michael learned about the death of the cell, he sent me a diatribe about his vision of my evening - lots of bubbly, teetering high heels, excessive cleavage, (why are gay men so obsessed with boobs?) and dangerous flirtation, followed by an entangled fall into the hot tub. Almost all of my friends replied to the cell-killing email announcement with a "I gotta hear this one" response. ...And the reality? My water bottle dumped in my gym bag, hence killing the phone. Example #712 of how anticipation is so much better than the reality.
But if you see Michael, please don't tell him. It would break his creative little heart.
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