Wednesday, August 11, 2010

I Also Smoked In NY, So I Sound Like Kathleen Turner

Well, I totally fucked up on the ramen project, mostly because I forgot to pack ramen in my suitcase that was otherwise filled with expensive vodka in plastic bottles and condoms I intended to inflate and Scotch tape around the hotel room as a welcome surprise for my roommates, none of whom actually slept in our room during the trip except for Elizabeth was is pregnant and therefore doesn't count, except on the census, and then she counts double. I also didn't really pack flat shoes that were comfortable for walking further than 18 feet (coincidentally, the length of Summer's thighs) so I hobbled around Milwaukee and LaGuardia and Manhattan and the Hilton New York for two days until I reached into my Skittle duffel bag and found that I had indeed packed TWO pairs of flats and had therefore lost three of my toes for no reason.

Farewell, little friends, you served me well until I severed you on my stilettos.

I also forgot to inflate the condoms, but that's probably because my roommates beat me to the hotel by an entire day which made surprise decorations impossible but which also made the busboy at Seraphina's on 57th and Broadway a very happy man who said he will think of me when he uses them. If none of this is making sense, it's because I still haven't slept since I got home late on Sunday night because of a few little things called Having to Work and Financial Crisis and Five Head Got A Laptop and Must Skype 24/7 or Die of Boredom (aka Time To Go Back To School, Kid).

By the time I realized I forgot to bring ramen, I was so drunk that I butt-dialed Alaska and then I told several strangers about my ingrown cooter hair, and I guess my point is that in comparison with all of the things that I could have forgotten to pack, the ramen isn't really such a big deal and I'm sure you all will forgive me for starting this project over now that I'm back (and even more destitute than before I left). The funny thing about NYC is that I spent a small fortune on the hotel room but I don't think I ever once had to pay for my own drinks, even after telling all the men at the bars that I'm newly married. They would all shrug their shoulders and make a noise that sounds like "meh" and then keep buying my drinks anyway, which is basically what my idea of heaven is except I didn't run into Tom Hanks in a towel and I didn't get to watch the circus in my pajamas.

So generous with the drinks were said New York men that I threw up at 4:00 p.m. after a full night's sleep, two naps, and a big lunch, and I NEVER throw up, especially not from booze, but the really weird thing was that I went into the same bathroom about forty-five minutes before then and had the whole place to myself (except for the chick in the superwoman costume) but when I returned with my lunch in my esophagus, there were women swarming everywhere and all I could think was A) I have a vomit audience and B) there must be free cupcakes in here.

I guess it's probably good that I wasn't eating ramen when I hurled because then I might have a vomit-induced aversion to ramen noodles and that would make the Month of Ramen into a Month of Memories of that Time I Hurled in New York, and as much as I want never to forget that moment, I also want to be able to enjoy my MSG in peace.

And at least I can say that I came home with all of my bones intact.

PS - So I don't hear about it later, I'm mentioning Susan. Hi Susan! Do you see me mentioning you? Great tits, by the way.