28 April 2002 - 10:48 p.m.

Okay!! Fine!!!

I drank out of the fucking milk carton, alright! So you can just whisper and titter and revoke my 75 pink skirts and membership in the Sandra Dee fanclub!! Which I hope is something that doesn't actually exist!

In all fairness, I wasn't so much drinking out of the carton as using milk to alleviate some of the pain of the four-alarm Indian cuisine I reheated for my 4 a.m. snack last night. And I just couldn't bring myself to dirty one of my cheery Fiestaware goblets or my Betty and Veronica Fashion Show juice glass, and run the risk of slopping dishwater on my Isotoner slippers. Not for one tiny swig of dairy only meant to keep my toothbrush bristles from feeling like daggers.

One day you're a lady. But then you get mixed up in exotic cuisine, and before you know it, you're in over your head.

And once you've drunk out of the milk carton, you might as well give up. You might as well wear jeans to the museum. And then come home and put on black sweatpants without changing out of your navy shirt.

I should know. It happened to me. It can happen to you.

(I hope everyone realizes I'm totally kidding with this whole entry. Well, sort of.)

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: