Ok, it’s in a very ghetto fabulous state at the moment but I’ve finally gotten off my lazy, subway-spoiled ass and started rebuilding my pre-Katrina Bianchi. She ain’t much to look at and she may be a little dangerous at the moment, but she’s mine. She’ll soon be rideable again.
A (not-so) quick recap, shall we?
Thursday I stayed home sick with food poisoning and a 101 degree fever thanks to a delightful, non-lethal Indian buffet I had for lunch on Wednesday. It had made me so ill and drained so much of my energy that I was barely able to stumble periodically to the restroom to projectile vomit into the tub, much less sit up in my bed and watch x-tube. When I’d get bed sores from my mattress I’d slowly crawl down the stairs to the living room and lay down on the sofa in a fetal position, browsing porn and making a mental list of videos to watch when I regained my strength. (A girl needs something to live for, right?) I’d then climb back to my room, certain I would soon die alone, surrounded by regurgitated cat hair, piles of kitty litter and dirty laundry.
After work, Katherine kindly brought to my bedside some orange juice, Diet Coke, ibuprofen and toast. Alberto slapped a nasty cold wet paper towel on my face.
It’s the thought that counts.
Friday morning I was feeling better so I dragged myself into work and somehow sustained a moderate pace of work for the day on nothing but a banana parfait from Cosi. The thought of chewing solid food still made me want to vomit into the nearest open container larger than my head.
I was hoping I’d feel better in time to go to my friend @districtofryan’s potlock dinner Friday night, or as we referred to it on twitter, the #pansypotluck. (the # denotes a topic of conversation — a “hashtag” in twitterspeak.)
I waffled a bit on whether I’d go, since I hadn’t had time to make a dish, but at the last minute I pressure-cooked the hell out of some veggie chili and took a cab out to Crystal City to join the rest of the #dchomos.
Crystal City, from what I can tell, is just an area of Arlington with a big cavernous, maze-like underground mall. It’s totally not the home of any super villains, like it sounds. Well, unless your super hero is sobriety – then Crystal City would indeed be their liar. The #dchomos can drink. And stumble. And take photos. And scream quotes from First Wives Club at the top of their lungs.
I put the crockpot of chili on the table and placed the packages of crackers upon the mound of other carbs that had been exiled to the center of the table where no one could eat them, because
their starved, toneless forms couldn’t raise their arms high enough to reach them as I always say “out of sight out of mind.”
At least once during the course of the night, each of the 20 or so guests would happen to mention a word or two, like “table”, that also happened to be contained in the script for First Wives Club or Steel Magnolias. At which point, a shrill voice would shriek from the living room and finish whatever scene it assumed was being invoked. Being a party of mostly gay men several other voices would soon join in, forming a cacophony of lispy, horrid fake southern accents trying desperately to channel Dolly Parton. They would holler random quotes at the top of their lungs: “but a seven feels so good, I buy a size eight!”, “Get your roots done!”, “he don’t know whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt.”, “You are a pig from hell.”, and of course “Are you *high*, Clairee?” After a few hours, I couldn’t take the screaming anymore. I wanted to turn *someone* into that armadillo cake.
Who the fuck was that, anyway?
Saturday I slept in. I was invited to go way the hell back out to @districtofryans to go swimming, but I decided to stay inside and
watch x-tube and do laundry and otherwise go to sleep be productive. I missed out on the poolside drama, but I heard about a lot of it later that night at Nellie’s. I’d spill the beans here, but I’m not one to gossip.. :)
(Ok, I am, but some of it is too much even to be posted on a shitty little site like this, even if the word “cunt” is in my sub-title.)
After the dirt got dished, I met @mikesica at Omega where we walked around aimlessly drinking diet cokes. Mike tried to hit on some guy that couldn’t speak English and I chatted with some old creepy queen that tried to eat my face when I told him good bye.
No really. Did you see Cloverfield? At the end? When you see the monster’s mouth come down and wrap around the head of the guy with the camera from his point of view? You actually felt like the monster was eating you.
It was just like that but much gayer and with more tongue.
Sunday I went and saw some shitty movie named Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I won’t get into that though, I don’t want hate mail.
This morning I read a quote from a comment on my blog in Express, a condensed version of the Washington Post that is primarily circulated on the DC Metro; that was kind of cool. So welcome to my blog, those of you who arrived here from there. I’m thrilled that the first thing you’ll learn about me is that I’ve had zits on my head since I was 16.