Fantastic Metropolis

13.9.05—Karma Police, Arrest That Man

Went to Jen’s party last night, and it just goes to show you that I should really never leave the house. I wore this great little top and sexy Italian tights I picked up this summer, and spent fifteen bucks I don’t have on Chilean table wine (this will be important later). The G train, predictably enough, took an hour to show up, and the platform was hotter’n a crotch. So much for ironing. The train was packed too, and I spent the trip with my nose shoved into some guy’s wonderfully sticky and STANKY armpit. I don’t blame him though, I smelled traces of some cheap-ass deodorant mixed in with the sweat-and-landfill stench pouring off of him so he was probably just stuck on the train for so long that the Degree or whatever finally gave out. It was NO fun though.

Also no fun, Jen’s party. When I got up to her apartment, she rushed up and whispered “Shit, you’re here! Didn’t you see my IM! Like nobody came!” She was right, there were about five people there, with me making six, and Jen and her two asshole roommates, chewing on nachos and bellowing LOUDLY about whatever lame-ass “reality” show they’d best be on. How about “Living Room Losers”? This is why I don’t have a tv! It has turned every possible conversation in the world into dimensionless mush!

I was also the only one who bothered to dress and I paid for that too. I was sweaty and wrinkly and probably had stink lines coming off my forehead from that guy on the train but Jen’s asshole roommate’s asshole boyfriend attached himself to me anyway. The roomie, Lynn, just sat on a beanbag the entire time, her head poking out of a giant rumpled sweatshirt, frowning at me. I’d have extricated myself, but there was literally nobody else to talk to but Jen, who just kept picking up the phone and hanging it up, and checking her email over and over. He kept asking me if I was into comics, or slot-car racing. WTF is slot-car racing!!!! I finally got into the kitchen to get something to drink and couldn’t even find my own wine. The Sweatshirt Monster popped up behind me and told me that Chilean table wine is for cooking, and that I should have brought some pork chops to marinate if I wanted them to keep it. I didn’t even know what to say; what kind of CUNT demands pork chops from people! And it wasn’t just a joke either—this girl has no sense of humor.

I would have left right then, but Jen looked so miserable and she did witness my plight and quickly get me a vodka from the freezer. I was drinking that and pretending to look at the bookshelves (who the hell needs THIRTY BUFFY NOVELS!) and I hear that noise all girls love. You know the one, “Psssst.” Psssst, like a fucking cat. It’s the boyfriend, looking at me from one of the bedrooms, the door just cracked open a bit. He starts waving like a retard at me to come in even though I’m staring daggers at him. I go in anyway because I’m afraid that someone else is going to hear his hissing and what does he have for me! My wine, in two glasses, are waiting on the night table and THEN he reaches down, undoes his belt and pulls hid dick out of his fly, all floppy and gray (EWWW! And he wasn’t even drunk!) I ran back out, spent twenty minutes in the bathroom reading the same fucking issue of Nylon over and over, and then when I heard someone finally else show up to the goddamn party. I got out, said bye to Jen, and took a cab all the way home.

LAST TIME I go to Jen’s house, definitely! I love her, but she needs to start smacking people in that house around.