30 September 2001 - 9:31 p.m.

I just locked myself out of my apartment. I am a bitchtard. I'm so lucky that I live above somebody's garage and not in a real house, because then I'd be screwed. All I had to do was ring Barbara and Marvin's door and ask for the key. Of course, that made me look dumb in front of my landpeople and my boss. So I guess there's something to be said for looking stupid in front of a few anonymous cops.

Last night, after much drunken debauchery, I felt the need to sign Toothbrush's guestbook in between bouts of vomiting. Why? And why did I lie so much last night? Why did I make a list of the order in which I would be willing to get with my male friends that was not actually the order in which I would be willing to get with them? Why did I call my ex-boyfriend hot and say he had a very grabbable ass when the first is not true any more, and I have no recollection of grabbing his ass? There is an old Italian saying that in wine there is truth. That saying apparently doesn't apply to me.

But I think I topped myself by grilling Gus about when we are going to get married, after having a firm talk with one of my girlfriends about the need to whip your boyfriend at least to the extent that he won't take you for granted and make you wait 12294 years before he proposes. Better still, not only did I harrass Gus, I harrased everyone else. But the wedding Gods made me pay dearly by keeping me bedridden fro most of the day.

Fucking alcohol. Fucking hard lemonade, cosmopolitans, sidecars, and shots of Baja Rosa. And Karma, fuck you too.

What I'm wearing:

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What I'm doing after this: