11.08.02 :: 2:44 pm

My upstairs neighbor invited us to his apartment for his birthday party last night.

Decked out in my Goonies tee, and flip flops I entered his apartment and entered the supermodel zone.

Models. Everywhere. Strewn lazily about couches. Standing enormously in the kitchen. With their severe bangs and angular faces and low-rider jeans exposing dangerously spiky hipbones.

And their counterpart, the photographer, was there too.

And it was kind of fucking lame. Because all they did was look at magazines with pictures of themselves that the photographer took.

Can you believe it? I thought surely these are party girls, we're gonna dance up a storm in the living room. But no. Just bored-looking, wan females in really expensive shoes staring at their images.

So what was I to do? I drank half a bottle of Jack and wound up puking standing over my bathroom sink about an hour later, of course.


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