Today is Monday, my favorite day to pretend I am going to be productive but instead do something stupid like get coffee at three-thirty & then crash & want to kill myself.
I’m still drinking Block Shiraz, so nothing new there, aside from its correlation with a disaster over the weekend.
I’m sorry to say that I was the disaster.
I brought a Block Shiraz to UCB to drink backstage & ended up taking the rest of it to a party I crashed in the hills. My friends from my “college” days (“working retail, getting stoned & lying to my parents about going to college” days) invited me. The house was gorgeous & modern and the host was a gentleman of high-spirits & good scotch. I arrived nearly delirious on life & wine, in shorts that were far too short, with an attitude reserved for people partying on yachts or some shit.
Before inviting me anywhere, you should remember that 65% of the time I am drinking, I will spill. I am too excitable & talk too big with my hands & am generally clumsy. So of course, riding the rush of performing & seeing all my friends from a life long since passed, it was only a matter of time before I royally fucked shit up.
And I did.
While big-hand-talking, I knocked my red wine over all over his coffee table, spilling all over a bunch of photographs he had left out before it escaped off the edge to its doom on the rug. I jumped up to the kitchen, but there were no paper towels. I grabbed a dish towel & went to work, cleaning up the table & blotting up the rug in record time before anyone outside of my small posse had time to notice. I totally Double Bro Seven’d that shit & sashayed my way to the other side of the house, leaving the crime scene to go innocently crip-walk.
I’m sure he’s aware of the disaster by now, because at some point in the past forty-eight hours, he had to have gone to his coffee table & felt how sticky it was, or just seen his kitchen towels from Crate & Barrel I could never justify buying next to his sink, covered in wine. He also probably knew it was me, because with my luck he saw me spill on the wood floors about thirty minutes later & clean it up with my faux leather jacket from Forever 21.
So, this is my public apology to Cool Host Dude. I’m very sorry for being a video-ho-dancing, clumsy-ass, narcissistic bitch who thought she could get away with ruining all your shit.
Which, hey, maybe I did. In which case, THIS NEVER HAPPENED.