12 February 2002 - 5:11 p.m.

Not true. But I am contemplating having a mixed drink with dinner. Which is not something I do. And is not something I'd be proud of.

I'm sorry to serialize my entries like this, but Saturday ended up being so bizarre that I couldn't really find the time to get it all into one entry.

Following the party was a big ol' pain in the ass we like to call load in, which is where we all get together and haul the big friggin set into the venue. We weren't there long before my best friend decided that my my pretend new best friend should have a new nickname, Splinky, and that "Splinky" should mean impotent. Christ. At the tail end of this, the guy I flashed and my actual boyfriend, with whom I am miraculously not having issues, came over, decided the whole thing was ridiculous, and the only way to settle the matter was for all of them to take sides against eachother and fight a war over me.

Remember the song "Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?" If any of you own the Camelot soundtrack, kindly burn it in my honor tonight.

A bit later, the token slutty girl we know was hanging on all the boys while the ex, the bi friend, and I were making awkward small talk over a velour drop. "I think {slutty girl} is hitting on Gus, " says the ex.

"Of course, " I reply. "She's a slut."

"Did you just call her a slut?" he asks, scandalized.

"Sure," I said, "but it's okay, because I'm a slut too."

"That is certainly not true," said the ex. "None of us would be interested in you if that was true."

And that made me feel worst of all the things that had happened. Because really, being a slut is okay. Sluttiness is a social construct that's used to keep women in subservient roles. But I am a coquette, and there's nothing good about that.

Like, at all.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: