autumninnewyork: (are you nuts?)
[personal profile] autumninnewyork
I have a Simon. He’s my bitch.

That sounds worse than it really is, maybe even cruel. It’s not. I’m not. There’s this thing we do, Simon and I, after a night out at a club or a party—an event. He calls me up at an hour where even God refuses to start the day; I stumble from my bed and fumble for the phone before my grandmother can start swearing up a storm and then I bark at him in my cattiest voice, “I’m ready, bitch!”

Then we dish.

We discuss who was where and with whom, who was wearing what and if they shouldn’t have been, which person had the best hair or the worst makeup—basically all the bad things you think in the back of your mind while you are smiling and nodding mindlessly as you try to make sense of meaningless babble in a room with too many people and a sound system turned up too loud for meaningful conversation. It’s not very nice but I think it’s necessary. It’s a weird social catharsis we need in order to survive the next round of weekend mayhem.

I’d get a goldfish but I think it’s cruel to purchase something with a longer lifespan than mine.
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