Oh my crap.
This is well shameful.
Friday was dumb and boring – we had a Baron session.
Saturday, was fun. I think. Fuck. Don't do what I did, kids. Ever.
I checked my phone Sunday morning – head reeling in post-debauched headache – and I found that I'd tried to send all of my phone recipients this message:
Vietecal hugetiontiontt homet at all is increming. Vietecs the AMAZING THERE IS GOD.
I imagine I tried to send that to C, probably trying to tell her I was home safely at 2:00am, but honestly, I cannot be sure.
I remember singing karaoke at a Big In Japan party. I remember meeting new people. I remember getting acquainted with a watermelon, and handing around the diabolical punch inside it with a ladle. I remember enjoying this punch immensely. I remember dancing like Scatman John. I remember karaoke, and general overindulgence and fraternisation. Jesus, then that's about it. Because I don't remember anything in between leaving the party and waking up the next morning. Hollllly fuck.
There must be angels. I believe finally that there have to be a group of saccharine angels looking over me.
Martha Stewart filled me in on the details. I got home with a whole lot of snacks. (I stopped at the Engen garage?) - the next day finding Fritos next to the toilet - then spilt coke over my nice new polka dot shorts, then I told her that “you know those white things in the middle of the road?” Martha: The lines, you mean. “Yes those things. Anyway, I couldn't see them.”
I was so wrecked, from the cane in the watermelon (I drank cane?! Ah. It all makes sense now.) that I don't remember stopping off for snacks, leaving the party, and driving altogether.
That is terribly shameful. And kids, you don't want to ever do that. Had the cops stopped me, they wouldn't have needed to breathalise me. I was dressed up like the Japan flag – had red lipstick all over my face, looked rather disheveled and was monumentally and properly fucked.
I won't do that again. How did this happen? And I am alive? Seriously? That fucking watermelon and its contents. Damn you watermelon punch, damn you.
I blame the oke dressed like Elvis Presley dishing out the punch out of the said fruit. God, everyone was tucking in. And we were singing Britney Spears on the karaoke machine and I was pretending to be the human version of the Japanese flag (no one really go it – white and red guys, how hard can it be?) and like C, kimono's from her granny's closet.
L2 phoned me the next day to ask what the fuck happened. I drove from Riverclub to Illovo; she drove from Riverclub to Rivonia. And C also drove home. Bad girls. Bad, bad, bad. I thought I was becoming quite responsible lately – turning down the chance of multiple Jaegermeistering, leaving before the heat gets too hot in the kitchen, generally piping down.
What the fuck was this then? A moment of insanity maybe. Martha Stewart and I did go on a whoring shopping spree Saturday afternoon after all...and I suppose I felt like a young un again.
Memory loss and red lipstick on my face, coke all over the floor.
Apparently thanking God, Allah, Buddha, Jah, Jesus and all those religious dudes for keeping me alive.
Had to play in a croquet tournament the yesterday, at the Joburg Country Club. Quite an apt little punishment.
But I was Big In Japan, apparently.