A message I sent to C at 3:00am, Saturday morning: Ok. Am ducked tri never been to retaled in my kidde and rel twa modu yeah old her?
Which is lank coherent.
Oh buddha oh jesus, oh He of the Sky that Throws Me With Shit The Whole Time. I smashed frigging a twenty-one your old in my face on Friday. I am a paedophile.
Now people cradle snatch. I have been out with men younger than me, I love them young. Love 'em. But I'm sorry – the man was 20, and I'm 26. He's a baby and I'm a fuckin' sugar mommy.
We were at a crazy party for K2 and J's birthday. C and I drank champagne before the event – in fact we drank champagne pretty much the whole weekend. Then I went and sucked face with a juvenile – a young, impressionable and good looking boy – with 'Jesus Is Coming – Look Busy' written across his shirt. Classic.
I've decided not to hate myself too much, so I've giggled more than had loser's complex.
There were some lovely looking dudes at this place, and the tequila was flowing all over the show.
Woke up (alone) and still drunk, wearing only doondies and a bikini top (?) that had shifted right off my noombies, my belt somehow also found its way into my bed, after it fell off my body when I was standing up. It was a crazy evening. Lots and lots of fun though.
We went to the Colony on Saturday. My first Colon outing of the year. Belted out a tune, which sounded like nails across a chalkboard, because the bloody DJ made an announcement at the end: “Thank God that's over. Pheweeee. ”
I've lost my voice. And three of my toes have been numb all weekend. And I'm a paedophile.
But I also did something vaguely useful this weekend: I went on a long cycle Sunday. In the rain, by myself. It was fantastic.