A Bash

Ah, the bleary-eyed, muddy feeling of a righteous hangover. Didn't even have the strength to put in my contacts this morning. Ah, Karaoke. Ah, Quervo Gold. Ah, Youth.

Observations from the party last night:

Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly awkward in conversations (like, when, for example, my friend is introducing me to a guy who writes and directs music videos for Britney Spears) I don't know what to do with my hands.

Why is it never that the man who writes and directs music videos for Ms. Spears wants to include me in his next project, but instead that the strange man with a large gap in his teeth and suspiciously unkempt hair wants to keep in touch with me because (in a breathy voice, with eyes large and spooky like a jack-o-lantern) he thinks I'm adorable and wants to know how he can get me involved in his work?

When feet are tired and clamped up in very high-heeled boots, they throb on the bottoms in time with your heartbeat.

Sometimes the older, glamorously dressed woman who has a slightly mysterious Southern accent and is keeping the attention of the man whose attention you wish you were keeping, turns out, in the end, to be his stepmother.

It is never a good feeling to have a married person hit on you.

Energy can shoot through you like a sneeze the minute they play Petula Clark's "Downtown." Even at 3:30 am.