Don't call it a comeback.
I walked into the packed West Village house party with Brendon and Greg and was showered in glitter. Literally. Doug found me and poured a bottle of the tiny shiny stuff all over my head. He grabbed me a glass and filled it with red wine and champagne and squeezed me by my hamhocks onto the sparkly dance floor.
I was propositioned by two nice young chickens. They both wanted to take me home. TOGETHER. One of them might be reading this right now. (Um, hey. Yeah, what's up?) I don't know why I'm calling them chickens. It's not really what I mean but it was the first thing that came to mind. I like chickens. I have a rubber one in my entryway.
I didn't go home with either of the nice young chickens. Or both of them, or whatever. I'm not quite ready to open my eyes and see someone lying next to me, or over me or under me, who isn't for that one second when I had my eyes closed the one I expected to see when I opened them.
