Go, go, go, go, I'll get over you (y'drive me crazy up the wall, think you're Mr. Know-It-All)
Last night, my friend Roman and I rolled up to a new party called "Look" in chinatown, in which we quickly discovered (1) we were not drunk enough to handle scantily clad dominatrices and (2) we knew no one there, and would probably not know anyone as the night wore on. So we took off to visit our friend Seth at his place of gainful employment, the Soho Grand. Things were going swimmingly, or rather, things were getting sangria-marized, we ran into some chums we knew and then I ran into a huge,
huge mistake.
So, I spoke to Sir Mistake, basically had an existential, Celestine Prophecy-esque meltdown and proceeded to go back to his apartment after the drinks flooded my poor brain and tattered up old body. Why, you ask? Why? To clear the air, to sweep stuff up and throw it out, and to let this person know where he stands, where he stood, and why he sucks
so hard.Easier said than done, but mission accomplished. Whatever. Although I was tougher than the bouncers at Bungalow 8, meaner than Lindsay Lohan apr�s her transformation to Mean Girl status, and firmer than the nuns in "The Magdalene Sisters," I still felt like I betrayed myself today. That guy is toxic.
2005-07-31 | 1:28 p.m.
