13 April 2002 - 3:22 p.m.

And that's about all I have to say.

No, wait, here's a question for the ladies: does that soft spot your heart you have for the first person who told you were a good kisser ever go away?

Since I brought up the k-word, I guess it wouldn't be fair to end this entry without mentioning that there was a party at the apartment of my favorite ex-boyfriend last night, and so the evening evolved in typical jpellecchia fashion. No, I did not hook up with anyone, which is more than I can say for someone who was, according to Tinsel, coaxing young boys into manhood last night. Damn, woman!

Highlights of the festivities included a guy named Muffin, who is kind of this hottish David Hyde Pierce-looking guy introducing himself to me in maybe the funniest way ever.

Muffin: Are you, by any chance, Jenn?

Me: Why, yes. Hi.

Muffin: I'm Muffin, it's nice to meet you.

Me: It's nice to meet you, Muffin. I think I've seen you around before.

Muffin: Yeah, I'm really glad you're here because the other day I was talking to [girl we both know] and she was like, "I know you know who Jenn is. She has red hair and a pink skirt." And I was like, "A pink skirt? Like, every day?" And she said, "Pretty much, she has a lot of pink skirts." And then I came in here and saw this girl with red hair and a pink skirt, and I was like, "That has to be Jenn."

Ha. Hahaha. You gotta love when something is still funny when you're sober.

Anyhow, this morning, interestingly enough, Alektra asked me if Muffin had gotten any last night, and I had too report that I did not think so, inasmuch as within an hour of his arrival he could not sit up by himself, and he kept spilling stuff. He did put his hand on my leg. but with the disclaimer that it was just to steady himself. I understood. If I was as wasted as Muffin (which I would be later, believe you me), I would hope the folks sitting next to me were not stingy with thier thighs.

And, those of you who are interested in the astrology of the body or chakras or whatever should let me in on what was up with the cosmos last night, because my crotch seemed to be at the center of an inordinate amount of activity. First, when I had just drunk enough that I thought it would be cool to start sending instant messages to everyone on the ex's AIM buddy list, and had a grand time pretending to be him, I got caught, and he tried to wheel me away from the desk, but to no avail, because the ex is a total wuss, and even though he has almost a foot on my, I could seriously kick his ass any day. So he tried to get himself between me and the keyboard and salvage all of his relationships, and in the process, manage to stick his elbow in my crotch. I'm afraid I caused a stir by yelling, "YOUR ELBOW IS IN MY CROTCH!" 10 or 15 times, but the ex didn't budge. I guess that's what I get for typing lots of random characters, i.e. dujswuhru dokr-0wmorp!, while he was trying to retrieve his keyboard, and for saying really corny things like "Natch!" to all of his online friends.

Once banished from the computer, I decided to lounge with KT and Tinsel on the ex's bed, and within a few minutes, Muffin decided that he was going to sit unsuccessfully next to us, at which point a portion of my screwdriver was knocked from my cup and spalshed onto my crotch.

But my notorious pink skirt dried nust have dried quickly enough because the boy alluded to in the second paragraph of this entry, who, not insignificantly played Dr. Sanderson in Harvey, (shown here between me and the ex) did not complain of any wetness or vodka smell shortly afterward when he sauntered over and threw himself on me. Literally, though - not in the, you know, sexy euphemistic way. So we conversed for a few moments until he inturrupted me to say, "You do realize I'm laying on you, right?" at which point I offered him a pillow, and he replied he didn't want to get too comfortable in the event that Gus came in. Not only did this reflect shrewd judgement on Dr. Sanderson's part, but I surprised myself a bit by thinking that my love for Gus was even greater than the sex appeal of the dude in my lap, and for those of you who know who I'm talking about, you'll agree that that's saying a lot.

So, confident that nothing naughty was going to happen, Dr. Sanderson and I had a very pleasant time reminiscing about our old drunken transgressions and discussing graduate degrees in the semi-compromising position we had assumed like a pair of retired whores of Babylon. Which is almost what we are, now that I think about it.

At the risk of pissing anyone off, I have to admit that this was my favorite part of the evening. But not for lecherous reasons. It's because it proved a couple of my theories: One, that, for some people, flirting is a sport that requires training and practice, which is really the best way I can think to describe last night - nobody was playing to win, but our mojos got a good workout. Two, that genuine platonic affection can grow out of several years' meaningless flirtation, and a friendship based largely on both parties working to make eachother feel as foxy-fine as they can is no less valid than a friendship based on trading stamps or chatting on ICQ or taking classes together or working in the same office.

I could say more, I guess, but an entry that was supposed to take two minutes to write has now eaten up two hours of sacred novel-writing, thesis editing time, so damned if I'm not screwed. I don't even feel hungover anymore, I've been sitting here with my tea and water and mints for so long. I will finish up by saying that the evening was cut short by a bout of vomiting, and Gus was a super-good sport about getting me home in a straight line and forgiving the large amount of my attention that was paid to Dr. Sanderson. As much as I feel I behaved fairly well last night, it can't be enjoyable listening to some dude allude to the fact that being intoxicated with your girlfriend was fun times galore until you came along, and for that, I extend my humblest apologies to you.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: