life alert in da club

“Um, is there molly in this?”

“Oh, god honey, no! What kind of mother do you think I am?! Why, do you want a little bit? Because if you’re going roll I’d rather you do it in the house.”

****

(2008, everybody)
(2008, everybody)

I’m sure by now you’ve heard and seen more than your share of knee-jerk anti-drug propaganda as a result of the molly-related deaths at EDM shows in New York and Boston this past weekend. Over on BULLETT, Luke O’neil gives an alternative and, in my opinion, more rational perspective on the matter. He points out that, hey, maybe molly isn’t actually growing legs and jumping down people’s throats and murdering them. Maybe there is a wrong way to pop da mollies, and maybe there is a way that’s slightly less stupid.

I’m not saying that people who die of drug overdoses are idiots. On the contrary. It’s just like that abstinence-only education shit they used to teach us in high school. When kids are told by authority figures and a bunch of talking heads to JUST SAY NO to something that they obviously wanna do, their resulting rebellion is usually approached with a strong degree of reckless abandon, simply for lack of knowing any better. If all you’re taught is abstinence, how would you know how to use a condom? If all you ever hear is DON’T TAKE DRUGS, a dangerous generalization that equates a puff of marijuana with an intravenous heroin shot, you may smoke weed once, think “hey that’s not so bad,” and then every cautionary tale sounds like bullshit.

Well, obviously they’re not all bullshit. Some drugs can kill you. And you can’t really absolve anyone from neglecting to do research about the shit they’re putting in their body. But with all the anti-drug info being SO dramatically sensationalized, and most of the pro-drug info being hosted on what appear to be Geocities websites, it’s no wonder people ignore what they hear and read and just do whatever they want. I certainly learned the hard way, and pretty much every drug rule I have these days is because I’ve done the opposite at least once before (an image of teenage me–in Vegas, pale, crying and shivering at the feet of a certain rodent DJ while my friend begged people for change to buy a $8 bottle of Dasani–comes to mind. Things I learned that night: don’t buy ‘ecstasy’ from strangers in sketchy salt lake city parking lots, don’t take more doses than all your friends combined, don’t wash them down with a bottle of alcohol, you dumbass, and for the love of god SAVE MONEY FOR WATER.) I’m pretty sure, technically, I should have died like…three times now?

I’m turning 24 next week and I know, I know. I can’t stop talking about it. But I’m, like, old now. I have a lot more to worry about than testing the limits of an invincibility complex. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine life past 19, and now I’m drawing up a distinct game plan for what I want to accomplish by 30. I don’t want to go completely straight edge, because hey, that’s lame! So instead I have to, like, “use good judgment” and other embarrassing things our moms used to tell us to do.

Bottom line? Do what you want, but KEEP IT CUTE.  You can’t be the life of the party if you’re, you know, dead.

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Growing up (is hard 2 do)

can't fight crime, kat st. kat, katstkat, patrickokay, unacclimated

In the summer of 2010 I once drank so much four loko that I staple-gunned my boot to my ankle. I must have looked so insane and pathetic in the attic of my much older friend’s house, sitting on the carpet with my legs in a W, laughing and crying a little as I pulled the metal out. I was 20 years old. I had no idea yet how to order a drink in a bar, but it wasn’t the first time I’d gotten drunk and hurt myself.

—–

A few days before I returned from North Carolina, while sexting a photo of my naked butt, I got an unexpected phone call about starting a new “gig,” (what the kids are calling jobs these days). It was a welcome opportunity since as you know I spent the major part of the last month fucking around, drinking cocktails and trying to get rid of my tan lines. But when I was torn from my spot on my childhood trampoline and catapulted into normal working hours back in lower manhattan, it was quite an adjustment. Every morning when my alarm goes off I am convinced there must be some way around it. This usually leads to a very rude awakening, followed by a lot of running through my apartment yelling “SHIT,” a lot of makeup and hair products being shoved into a giant canvas bag, and a lot of primping on the train.

It’s the same way I got ready for high school every morning. I’d guzzle 20 ounces of generously sugared black coffee in the passenger seat of my father’s car at 7 am, sometimes after sneaking out, taking drugs from strangers and only coming home to change my shirt. I’d drag the torn edges of my American Eagle jeans into first period hoping no one would notice I was five minutes late, or that I’d only slept twelve hours that week. In high school I was the girl who was greeted with giggles and whispers of “did you hear?” when I entered a room. My grades were impressive, I brushed my teeth twice a day and took a bath every night. But on any given weekend I’d probably drank half a bottle of watermelon burnette’s and gone skinny dipping in the backyard of a house party with someone’s boyfriend, or girlfriend, or both. I’d probably thrown up in a bush. Cheap liquor will do that to the girl who doesn’t eat. But I was gonna be famous. One day I’d be an Olsen twin.

—–

The summer of 2010, the one after we burned our house down, led to a winter, a spring, a subsequent summer and fall. By then I was great at ordering drinks in bars and guzzling bottles of sailor jerry on the back of my boyfriend’s motorcycle. I was even better at getting in drunken fights with that boyfriend almost daily. Some nights there were screaming matches in the streets. Other nights he’d carry me into our house over his shoulder after I had one too many shots. By my 22nd birthday I’d finished college, which might actually be the worst thing for a drinking problem. I was older, but I wasn’t an Olsen. I was depressed, directionless, 15 pounds heavier and never leaving the house. Until one day I did, and I ended up in jail. But that’s another story.

After the mandatory alcohol therapy and the somewhat sobering shame of making the front page of The Slammer, I started to get my act together. My unhealthy relationship had ended during a tumultuous Mercury Retrograde. I had a full time job where my coworker was a convicted felon on work release with an unlikely knack for life-coaching. I was spending one Wednesday a month dressing in my mother’s suits and hiding my undercut for court appearances to end up with a clean record. I was texting a funny writer boy in New York. I wanted to take risks, be stronger, do great things with my life and heart. So I started, and eventually I began to rise like a phoenix, I guess, from metaphorical ashes this time.

—–

Since then, I’ve only had a handful of dark drunken moments, most of which I laugh off and write about here. Once I cussed out a room full of innocent friends after drinking an unknown amount of four loko, which, by the way, is no longer my beverage of choice. Twice, maybe three times I’ve blacked out and cried, barefoot on a New York sidewalk. More times than I care to admit, I’ve looked into the wrong person’s eyes for too long.

Two weeks ago I went to sushi with my older brother in Durham, North Carolina. The site of my post-collegiate depression seemed so much cuter outside the haze. I’m sure it was because I’d moved on. I had prospects. I had a job. I’d worked in close proximity to major celebrities when less than two years prior I was watching them on apple TV, alone and hungover with the curtains drawn. He told me over martinis that he’d been reading my blog, and my first thought was fear. Embarrassment. When my brother was my age, he got married and had his first child. I’ve always admired him for that, the way he transformed almost overnight into this professional, responsible man. A daddy. Now 34 years old, he has a third baby on the way.

“Your life isn’t that crazy every night, though, is it?” he asked me. No, not always. And hopefully in the coming years it will be even less so. All of the stories are true; I take club drugs, I wake up too late, I pay for my groceries in quarters, sometimes I forget to eat and I drink too much and I say the wrong thing. I still ask my parents for money every now and then. But I turn 24 soon. I want some of those things to change, and I’m gonna have to figure out how.

Some days you get to work on time. Some days your hair looks perfect and your shirt’s right-side-out. Some days you exercise and some days you’re in love and there’s money in the bank and your shoes are tied and the kitty litter box is clean.

Some days your ambition rules you, your delusions roam freely, driving your life to those high points you are sure it will achieve someday. And some days you’re heartbroken, eating a can of beans in the tub. “But at least,” you think, “I remembered to bathe.”

independents

july 4, indepence day, alienbrigade, kat st. kat, the fab disaster It’s 6 o clock on Wednesday afternoon and the only things I’ve done this week are bedazzle a styrofoam penis with Swarovski crystals for my boyfriend, a very successful mentally unchallenged rap person, and watch Undeclared while eating peanut butter out of the thing. I’ve worked just enough in the past week to maintain a bank balance slightly greater than the amount I have already written in checks. Most importantly, I have regained the use of my brain and certain body parts temporarily rendered out of commission by the events of last week.
After I was abruptly swept into a derecho of PMS and Mercury Retrograde, all I wanted to do was treat myself with things I couldn’t technically afford. I began last week by trudging through the rain to get a bang trim, brazilian wax and Ameri-garb in preparation of the upcoming 4th of July soiree in Bushwick. I am a sucker for a theme and I really REALLY wanted an American Flag bikini. Failing to find one anywhere (not even on Knickerbocker, which I checked up and down about 6 times) I ended up after hours on Wednesday at the American Apparel in Soho, whimpering under fluorescent lights and trying to squeeze tiny red minidresses over my hips. I eventually settled on a blue thongatard which I figured I could find plenty of uses for even after the holiday, and went home to change into my Beetlejuice dress for Ghe20 Goth1k with the team.
That night we met at Moe’s apartment, where we listened to The Pointer Sisters on the roof, took selfies, and watched Bradford vogue with an actual taser.


We had an amazingly drama-free night, even if I did spend most of it sweating through my clothes and fanning myself with a piece of cardstock that said “$25 MINIMUM PER PERSON PLEASE SEE HOST TO BE SEAT.”  Later we went to McDonald’s where I accepted that I am not in fact a pescetarian anymore and ate a McChicken in 13 seconds flat.
kat st. kat, the fab disaster, m4rf4, GHE20G0TH1Kkat st. kat, the fab disaster, GHE20G0TH1K, patrickokay, moedabbagh, brxdford
The plan for the 4th was to attend the “Roof Is On Fire 4th of July Soiree” being held by a group of Bushwick hotties, and to potentially take some acid along the way. Patrick met me at my apartment Thursday with two green business cards he’d been given by a stranger with the instruction to lick them. The word on the street was that somewhere on those little green pieces of cardboard was the equivalent of one tab of acid. How, though, were we expected to ingest the acid without say, eating an entire business card? We tore the first one up, it suddenly seeming not so little after all, and put it in a glass of water.
acid, kat st. kat, independence day, the fab disaster, july 4This was so it would get soggy, making it easier to suck on and then eventually swallow. Which I did, and which I immediately realized was not a great idea as I then had a very large wad of wet cardboard sliding past my windpipe and into my perpetually sensitive stomach. I drank the rest of the water in the glass. Patrick ended up chewing his for a while and spitting it out. Turns out I probably could have done that and gotten the exact same results.
After EATING A FUCKING BUSINESS CARD, smoking a decent amount of weed and transforming into the look of a superstar I was finally ready to leave my apartment and head to this party. Walking through my neighborhood dressed like a slutty drum major I felt my worldview start to melt like a sno cone. The business card was proving to be the real deal, which I hadn’t fully prepared myself for despite the great lengths I went to test it out.
When we finally arrived the color had left my face, with the exception of my expertly applied makeup, and I was covered in sweat. I was beginning to think too much. I needed an alcoholic beverage immediately, or else. But when we approached the doorway we realized it was being guarded by the landlord. We were being barred from entry, despite looking adorable and B-ing our own B and now fully experiencing the effects of major hallucinogens, by the Hasid Who Stole 4th of July.
The sun was beginning to set and it was still 90 degrees. With a bottle of Bacardi and a 2 liter of Diet Cherry Pepsi we were sitting half-defeated on the bench in front of the corner barbershop, listening to our party happen above our heads. How was this happening? And to us for that matter?
Just then, a very pregnant blonde woman with a red camisole and solo cup emerged from a nearby gate attached to the adjacent building. If anyone was going to be our ticket into this party it’d be her.
“Which party are you here for?”
“Um, the weird one?”
“Yeah you can get there from here, you just have to climb.”
We ascended a fourth floor walkup and I straddled two canoodling youngsters to climb the fire escape onto their roof. We were suddenly at a party, but not our party. This party had food and puppies. Our party had drugs and starving fashion people and was on a much taller rooftop connected by a metal staircase hanging about a foot above our heads. We tossed our bags over the railing and pulled ourselves over, just in time to enjoy an explosion of fireworks on every borough of the city. We left shortly after midnight, but not before I crawled down to the other party and stole a burger and a bag of Snyder’s of Hanover, climbing back up, mouth full, like some kind of rabid chola Spiderman.
kat st. kat, the fab disaster, july 4, alienbrigade, l1lposh, patrickokay
I spent the next few days feeling a little off. I had one very swollen lymph node on the left side of my neck and I couldn’t speak at all. I was running out of breath trying to make sounds. Patrick was having similar symptoms and for a second I got a little freaked out. There is a meningitis outbreak in NYC right now so maybe sharing that cherry ring pop with 16 people at the roof party wasn’t such a great idea. Damn, we thought during a massive brunch at Pies and Thighs. What if we’re terminally ill now?

We shrugged, finished our fried chicken, and went to see The Bling Ring.

Life is a *Hater*

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Lately I’ve had to put an enormous amount of energy into not letting the haters affect my game. It’s unclear what I’ve even been doing with my life in the last month or so, but the struggle to remain posi is real and alive and I am more dedicated than ever.

This likely has something to do with the fact that everything has kind of blown dogs for me in the last four weeks. If things don’t steer straight for me soon, I fear I may become a hater myself.

Mercury was in retrograde for a minute there, which, for those of you that haven’t decided to arbitrarily assign significance to astrology, means that everything is supposed to be fucked up for a few weeks in the realm of communication. Decisions you make will be misinformed and contracts you sign will probably be reneged. Terrible things are supposed to happen all around, and they usually do for me. I tend to find myself on some manic binge, ending up in strange places at 5 in the morning and getting in trouble with the law. Because my life has been fantastically boring since the last time we spoke, I did not get myself into any life altering predicaments, and it was purely for lack of trying. Most of my days have been spent working my ~shit day job~ so much that all I ever want to do outside of that is shop online and play drinking games to Rookie of the Year. Of course I’ve been desperate to figure out my next move, and for a while I had a few bright options. I choose to blame the fizzling of those prospects on Mercury Retrograde and face it with the “one door closes, another opens” philosophy…because otherwise I’d just spend the rest of my life dipping french fries in my soft serve at the Burger King under the M train and feeling sorry for myself.

Because I try to always follow through with things I say I’ll do and be a “yes” person, from time to time I have decided to go out and show my face. I realize I need to meet new people, and sometimes when I do I feel great. Other times I’ve followed friends out to their somewhat intimate gatherings full of people I’ve never met where everyone asks me if I’m visiting from out of town and I fall into a k-hole of social awkwardness. Either way I usually just end up taking selfies in the bathroom.

The most exciting things that have happened in the last month are that Rainbow had a sale on crop tops, Hannah dyed my hair brown, I started walking a puppy three times a week, and I finally bought a bed. I’ve heard most Americans have them but I’ve just been sleeping on mattresses laid directly on the floor ever since I discarded my canopy bed when I was 14. The worst was a flea infested twin sized pad from my childhood bunk bed that I threw in the corner of my room and slept on for 5 months last year after I moved out of my ex’s house. The fleas were my cats’ fault, but really my fault. I still find it funny the number of one-night suitors I actually had the guts to bring back to that place, and laughable how many never complained, even with coffee cups and kitty litter everywhere. One of them even dated me for 3 months. Now, though, at the wrinkled age of 23 I try not to even have one night stands because the idea of bringing strangers into my house repulses me. I have to wonder if that’s because I’m appropriately embarrassed by the unfinished nature of my bedroom and the apparent lack of hygiene it projects or if I simply can’t stand strangers enough to commute with them back to my Bushwick apartment, or some combination of the two.

This hasn’t stopped me from giving my number to the wrong people, like the the creepy short guy that followed me home on Sunday night or the dude from Ok Cupid who offered me molly to “party” with him and his girlfriend. Needless to say I’ve changed a couple contacts in my phone to Do Not Pick Up. Somehow I have no interest in sleeping with people I don’t have “real feelings” for, and I definitely don’t have the energy to put myself such a volatile situation of sleeping with someone I actually like.

In the meantime I can’t stop getting shit from the people around me, and I’ve taken it much more personally than usual. People questioning my intelligence based on my open sexuality (I’ve always failed to see a connection between the two but apparently there is one?), women who compliment me with an insulting tone (“your boobs are so BIG”). Someone told me during sex recently that I hate my life but that I’m lying to myself (big question mark on that one) And a coworker pleasantly dispensed the info that my college major was totally useless and that’s why I’m a receptionist. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was probably just mad because she’s 37, just went back to undergrad and recently had a nervous breakdown over writing a 2.5 page paper double spaced. Still, if these things are upsetting me it’s because I’m not 100% happy with myself, and that’s on me.

There is always going to be someone hating you for who you are or who they decide you are. Out of fear, out of jealousy, or purely for the fun of it. Negativity is a fucking contagion, and you should never let the fact that someone hates their life mean you have to hate yours too. I’m constantly encountering women who hate other women for being sexual, or for being confident, or because of a man. Women who backwardly find threatening the outspokenness of another. People who are nauseated by other people’s success. People who offer career connections in exchange for sexual favors (a thing I naively thought only happened in movies like Legally Blonde). I try not to let it affect me, but about half the time it does.

Fine, so I’m still figuring out my reason for getting up in the morning. But I’m still going to do it. You can’t go through life believing you’re as trashy or as stupid or as sad as people say. If you want to be better, be better. But don’t allow yourself to be shamed.

My career and my love life may remain virtually nonexistent, but I’m still holding on to my posi vibes and taking my chances. Even if I fuck up royally and it feels like a kick in the gut, at least I know I’m trying. After all, you are the only one who can make yourself feel truly awful. No one else. And isn’t that nice?

things I did and didn’t do (but mostly did)

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It’s 3-ish in the morning and I’m halfway through my third beer, so I recognize that I owe you all a brief apology. Fine. I should blog more. I mean, what else am I doing besides gchatting with my ~new boyfriend~, working 40 hours a week at a fucking health food store, and listening to the same J. Cole songs over and over…

I’ve been back and forth to Brooklyn a lot recently because {SHYAMALAN} I am no longer bullshitting about moving to New York. I still don’t have a “REAL JOB” but that is neither here nor there. Worst comes to worst I can always do the cooking dance for change in the Bedford L stop (Hipsters don’t have change. Card swiper. I’ll have a card swiper). In between playing live-in girlfriend every other weekend and flipping fucking milk at Whole Foods I have, admittedly, fallen slightly off in the club scene. The above photo is from the Art Department show at Cielo…like twenty actual days ago. Who am I?

My boyfriend, who is also a writer and actually gets paid to be one (that is a thing) is afraid of a lot of stuff. When I came to visit him the first time in New York he was super “not into getting hit by cars,” and would like, wait before crossing the street. Similarly, and probably with just as good a reason, he is under the impression that you have to maintain innocence and mystery on the internet in order to get hired for anything ever. Meaning you cannot by any means mention that you have seen a drug in your entire life or have had a sex premaritally, and maybe you shouldn’t include links to pictures of your asscrack on your blog. The things they don’t teach you in college…

That being said, I can’t tell you what happened the night I took my sister out to the Station for Unwind two weeks ago. I can’t tell you how old she is and I definitely can’t tell you how old they thought she was, because I don’t know. I can’t tell you why they kicked us out, or what a certain someone did in the trashcan of their bathroom before we actually left (hint: someone pooped in it).

I can’t tell you who drove Pepe le Pew-level wasted that night. I can’t tell you who met a random (potentially homeless) barely-legal young lad on the sidewalk and hooked up with him in the back of that car. I can’t tell you what pool we may or may not have broken into, or how many u-turns we took in the middle of the street to get there. I shan’t name the person who shoved themselves into a styrofoam life preserver, which then got stuck, leaving that person with no choice but to drive around the rest of the night with it around their waist, then try to saw it off with a blunt steak knife around 5 am. How many pairs of underwear are still in the floor of that car? How drunk was I still the next morning when I made that video of me eating all the string cheese? You will never know. Because I want a job someday.

Bill Clinton was once asked if he had ever tried weed and he said “yeah but I didn’t like it, I didn’t inhale, and I haven’t done it since” (to paraphrase). Bill lied about a lot of stuff in his day, and it almost never backfired. Luckily, I am not running for president in the 90s any time soon, so I don’t spend a lot of time skirting the truth. Times have fucking changed, haven’t they? Or would the Hunter S. Thompson of our day be ostracized to the ninth level of internet hell because of his Xanga entries from high school?

~WHO KNOWS Y’ALL~ I’m not sure what kind of balance between unabashedly insane and semi-reliable I am trying to strike at the moment, but I’m not going to worry about it too much. I mean, sure, my ego makes it hard for me to see oncoming traffic, but it’s also big enough that I could probably handle getting run over once or twice. …Right?

Are you there, coma? It’s me, Kat st. Kat.

Late Monday night I took an effective dose of some mild painkillers and rode a bus 500 miles down the east coast. The following is an excerpt from my stream of consciousness.
“I am in a Long Distance Relationship with “another young writer” that lives in Brooklyn, United States.
On my way home from visiting him I have to take two busses. I am on the second, the megabus from washington dc to durham, and i can’t decide if i’m bored. I can’t decide if i am nervous about not having a ride to my house when i get to the stop at 4 in the morning. i can’t decide how fucked up i am after taking those two percocets. was the idea that i would sleep until i got home? i don’t remember. i think i’m having way more fun forcing myself to stay up so i can feel just how useless my brain has become. i am typing very slowly. i can’t remember if i already typed that. i am next to the emergency exit on the bus. for a while when the internet wasn’t working i debated pulling it to make a huge scene and express my frustration. the internet still doesn’t work but my second percocet kicked in and now i feel like one of those stress reliever balls. i feel like one of toro y moi’s synthesizers. i feel like one of the blockheads from gumby. i feel like anything on the show gumby. i feel like an animated video transition from I Love the 80s on vh1. i feel like i’m being given a swirly in a toilet filled with mashed potatoes. the thing about percocet is that it’s mostly tylenol.

i am listening to “Everybody Everybody” by Black Box, which is one of only 200 songs i put on the ipod nano that used to belong to my ex. i just reached to rub my itchy nose and on the way i slapped my mouth with what i thought was very little force but sure enough i am bleeding. Now I am listening to the song “Simple Things” by Zero 7 which is basically like taking three more percocets, lighting 50 tea candles and taking a bubble bath, except that instead of a bath I’m in a bus and instead of bubbles it is filled with some strangers.

shoutout to my boyfriend who is on a new york subway right now. i wonder if he is fucked up enough to pretend the random stranger next to him is just me and that we are still chillin. I’m trying to do that with the girl next to me but she has twist-outs which don’t look super flattering on white dudes.

if someone could keep a journal during a coma and we were able to compare notes…

but see when you’re in a coma you don’t have the luxury of making ridiculous faces in the dark because your face feels funny. so i win.

THE COMA DIARIES

SEX AND TEH COMA, BY ANNE FRANK

COMA ON EILEEN

JUST ME N MY COMA

COMA AND BEEZUS BY JUDY BLUME OR WHATEVER

-possible titles for a fake coma memoir

i could have packed like 5 more outfits in these bags under my eyes. i have to work at 9 am tomorrow/today which is pretty stupid. at work my friend Carl* who is on work leave from prison will be very excited to see me and the sugar skull i drew on a picture of what i think might have been a young queen elizabeth as a souvenir. Carl is my life coach. He teaches me about rising above the haters and following my dreams. He thinks i am going to write the great american novel. I have never mentioned wanting to write a novel. I might write a novel about Carl.

It feels like someone filled my ears with opium-infused marshmallow fluff. I keep seeing all this horse imagery on highway billboards and other than a vague curiosity i feel largely unaffected by this coincidence.

If listening to gucci mane makes you shed a single tear for your long distance boyfriend and crack a mona lisa smile while looking at the stars, scale of 1 to 10, how normal is that.

~

I feel pretty good about most things.”

*name has been changed

New York City, or, How Am I Not Dead Yet


Greetings fellow disasters! It looks like Mother Nature reads my blog and decided to bump up our medium-shitty weather to nearly 70 degrees and sunny as hell. My life is taking a similar turn; I got a job offer this morning, I lost five pounds, and things may or may not be improving in my relationship department (details to be divulged at a later date). Since I’ve spent the last four weeks feeling sorry for myself that none of these things had happened yet, I let one of the most fabulously disastrous times of my life go undocumented.

Team Big Things Does NYC (Dec 28-Jan 2).

It began as a simple road trip with a few broke friends; Bradford, Austin, Bill, Patrick and myself all crammed in a Jeep, with five cans of beans, three handles of liquor and about 50 packets of Ramen. I spent most of the ride up stoned and praying we didn’t flip over speeding through toll booths at 90 mph. When we finally arrived in Williamsburg to stay with our ever-so-generous hosts and cohorts Beth and Linnea, I was apparently overcome with exhaustion and/or narcolepsy; after a brief stint taking pictures of ourselves at Metropolitan (a location where I spent 20 minutes looking for my lost jacket that I never even wore), I was dragged by my cunt-ourage to…somewhere. It may have been a fabulous party at a fabulous gay bar with fabulous DJs. However, I was able to have just about this much fun:

So there’s that.

Now, normally I would give an account of what happened in the daytime at any point during this trip. And I promise, I was awake for some of those hours. But somehow my memory refuses to serve, probably given the central line of cheap liquor and THC I received during the trip, and all the time that has passed since. Suffice it to say that I was probably hungover and yelling at people on the street, singing Azaelia Banks a cappella or stealing hats from Topshop. Whatever. Moving on.

As far as I can recall, the next night was spent in the basement of Santos Party House, trying to pretend we weren’t the most amazing people in the room and that the drinks weren’t thirteen dollars. This proved to be very difficult, but after a certain number of cocktails I was able to twirl regardless. Later that night, Patrick met up with someone from Grindr at some random corner on Lafayette, only to approach with our entire crew and reject him on the spot. This was one of the weirder, more anti-climactic nights of the trip. I fell asleep with these 80/20 shoes on.

On night #3, Moe (my publicist and an all-around great guy) surprised everyone with a cameo appearance, bringing only his weekender and a sequined bow tie. We somehow managed to work our 9-person, almost entirely male crew into Le Bain, and even though I was wearing my velvet bustier and was too drunk to spell my name, my flirtatious advances somehow got rejected by the bartender. Feeling sad for about 0.0o1 minutes (I really wanted a free drink), I proceeded to assist Patrick in making out with a straight guy and spent 20 minutes searching for my lost phone. I ended up finding it in my boobs later on, but in all the bustle Moe and I made our way to security and they gave us some garlic knots. Worth it? I think so. The rest of the night was spent eating pizza in alleyways and consorting with the beautiful people at Brooklyn’s Sugarland.

 

And then came the big night.

New Year’s Eve in the city is always, of course, a huge deal and despite my millions of visits I had somehow never experienced it. No one I knew was super interested in Dick Clark’s Smeagol impersonation (god bless him), so our plan was to hit up the annual throwdown at the  Schinasi Mansion on the Upper West Side. This classy joint is one of the few and well respected free-standing mansions in NYC, flips for about 15 mil, and looks a little something like this on a good day.

 

After spending the entirety of December 31st drinking the cheapest handle one can locate in the 212 (Bacardi Coconut, it’s fucking good), and assembling head-to-toe metallic ensembles for the evening, our crowd (which now included my younger sister Kedrin, her two beautiful friends, and the adorably tux-clad Connor and Matt) rocked a subway car back and forth at 11:30 pm screaming “NINETEEN NINETY TWELVE!” into the faces of unassuming, innocent strangers who were headed for third shift.

5…4…3…2…1

I blacked out shortly thereafter.

Apparently, this is what the Schinasi Mansion looked like on New Year’s Eve.

  

According to what is now urban legend regarding that night, someone fell and broke their neck down those stairs just before we arrived in the wake of the ambulance. I took *something* that did not sit well with my stomach and spent the next few hours throwing up for the first time since 2010. In the middle of a crowd of girls who could only have hailed from Hamilton House itself, Moe fell asleep on someone, Austin danced in the streets for passing cab drivers, and Bradford took a bite out of a martini glass.

Beth, bless her heart, took care of us all.

Sure, I was kicked out of the party between five and ten times. Yes, I couldn’t walk down steps for a week because of the bruises on my legs. Okay, fine, I went a too far yet again and publicly humiliated myself like I always do. But I’d say the evening went almost exactly as planned (with the exception of falling asleep in the back of a cab and never making it to the party at Verboten I had deeply desired to attend).

For a split second, we were lost in the chaos of the capital of the world, turning everything we touched into a pile of feathers, glitter and blood.

And a split second later, as if nothing had happened, we were gone.