I guess that’s what happens when people start throwing birthday dinners at 6 pm (I always thought afternoon parties were for underprivileged pre-schoolers). You end up leaving trashed and ridiculed at 1 a.m. (instead of slightly tipsy and charmed at 4 a.m.) and wake up in an advanced stage of decomposition. Ah the lonely Sunday mornings of the alcoholics.
From the little I can recall, Fagat’s birthday party was all the rage yesterday. The glamorous décor reminded me of an Austrian brothel I once frequented and the guests list included a mix of human beings, Ivy League graduates (the kind that cannot help but tell you about the time they backpacked across East Africa even if it does not fit into the conversation), heavy hitters in NYC sodomites’ community, at least one Afghan warlord and a myriad of anonymous girls. I am asked to believe that I unsuccessfully pushed LL to commit adultery with some fellow Jew who apparently spent both time and
energy picking his friendster pictures. Everybody was badmouthing Alex S. and commenting on Cub’s friendliness. Nobody was wearing a stripped shirt besides perhaps Chirag. I was so wasted by 11 p.m. that I ended touching a pair of breasts (incidentally the generous one of Alex R.) and smoking from some cigarette – two bad habits I had quit for a long time - as a consequence I turned completely green and we had to leave just before they brought large crystal fruit cocktail bowl filled with cocaine and Jimmy was getting in. That's the last thing I remember of that evening… and the fact that I concentrated really hard not to puke in the cab.
As a consequence today was really painful: I woke up with an intense headache which did not get better and dragged myself around LL’s apartment crying about the fact that this binge drinking was totally uncalled for. I am sure we missed the best part of the evening (usually when the male models take off their clothes) and that we made comments to people we will regret…once again. As LL put it so well at 3:21 p.m. today "Do you think our lives are really depressing FHC?"
One last piece of information: I was told that Emile, the shitzu, did not have a cold but a good old rhynitis. He'll survive.
The last words I heard before passing out were "LL, I need water and a bucket!"
Posted by: LL | Sunday, March 26, 2006 at 03:28 PM
One of our absolute, most favorite things in the world, is a shitfaced FHC. Thanks for providing that on our special day.
Thanks, also, for tickling our crotch just before you left. We could have used more of that.
Posted by: Fagat | Monday, March 27, 2006 at 02:26 PM