I Can Wear Any Color Nail Polish I Want Because I’m Not Wearing A Shirt
Excerpt from The Chic Shall Rule the World by Emsy
Saturday was quaint. Timsy and I wanted a “detox night” as always, so we started getting dressed for it around 3 p.m. I wore glitter shorts, a black blazer, black platform pumps, chic brass knuckles, glasses that say “I will let you check out that encyclopedia with your library card, then I’m going to fuck you blindfolded,” and no shirt. Ready for a detox.
Naturally, we walked over to Therapy at 5 p.m. They have excellent happy hour specials, which means two-for-one vodka sodas, which means blackout Emsy before she even gets to the “two” portion of two-for-one. As usual, Timsy wanted to smoke after our first drink, so I slurred and stumbled after him like a little rehab-y kitten. All I remember from the cigarette break is Tim on the phone with his friend who was annoyed and complaining about how his boyfriend just broke up with him because he claimed he was cheating, and Tim replying, “But, like, you did cheat. With me.”
Back at the bar, we got our second drink a.k.a. we were both blackout. It was 6 p.m. We’re, like, really frail. I felt myself perched on a precarious ledge of out of control drunkenness, so we got on the subway to get more drinks at a rooftop bar near MSG. I felt real vulnerable, so luckily we were there just long enough for me to wave my hands in the air in a weak attempt to dance to rap, while someone took pictures of me.
At this point, Timsy and I couldn’t see, so we just went to another bar in Chelsea and sat in the quaint garden in the back. It was a dark, isolated corner where the shadows made us look coherent and pretty – maybe as though we were discussing our exhausting days at the jobs we don’t have? I imagine the lighting reflected perfectly off our Girl Meets Pearl face brightener. Soon after, our friend Morensies frolicked up to our dark, flattering garden completely sober. That wasn’t awkward at all when you’re at the level on which Timsy and I were. Sober friend plus two drunk train wrecks equals pizza.
Just because we got pizza, does not mean it was the end of our night. No, we had a full schedule ahead of us – probably because it was 8 pm. Also, just because we got pizza, does not mean that I’m fat. But that 99-cent pizza was everything to me at that moment. That red and white stark décor, those glaring fluorescent lights that make your skin look transparent, the homeless people walking up to your table to eat your salt – it may as well have been Martha Stewart’s Bedford fucking farmhouse for all I knew. All of it was simply glorious in my state of total blackout.
Magically, after the pizza was shamelessly ingested, Timsy and I were totally fine. Like, completely sober, which explains why we then ended up at a frat party in the West Village. Morensies really wanted us to meet this guy that she liked at said frat party, and by “meet” we all mean, “judge”. He was perfection, or in layman’s terms, he abides by the Spice Girls rule, “If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends,” so he poured us all shots and we essentially got married.
Everyone at that party was tragically chic. Like, they were either freakishly tall and artistic, were two pounds and artistic, or had blonde dreads. Too bad I don’t remember what they said to me, because it was definitely chic. Too bad I don’t remember any of their names (except for one bad bitch in neon lime lace named Kim, upon whom Timsy bestowed the name “Kimsies”) because they were also definitely chic. At least I know they were chic. Chic.
Morensies and Spice Girls started looking real cute together. They were like a wholesome beacon of hope in a dungeon of red cups, debauchery, and Jeffrey Campbells. Ugh, so cute. It was at this point that Timsy and I started dating and I think maybe kissed. Now that we were all dating, we had to leave and show everyone that we were in relationships.
I’m, like, really happy that Spice Girls wasn’t a killer or rapist because we mindlessly hopped in a cab with him and let him have his way with us, meaning that he told the driver to take us to the Jane Hotel. On our way there, Spice Girls turned up some fun, slutty music, all while Tim was yelling to the driver, “Wait, are you mad at me? Wait, do you hate me? Wait, are you mad at me?” to which the driver eagerly replied, “No, I not mad at you!” in a wholesome accent, definitely from somewhere in Asia. We all decided that Asian driver was as wasted as we were due to his egregious swerving and ridiculous speeding. After our thrill ride, we frolicked up to the attractive hunter green Jane Hotel awning.
How we got in to this place, I do not know. I mean, we were all visibly drunk. I wasn’t even wearing a shirt. The dark aura the whole place was emitting was kind of sobering, I must say. I absolutely loved it.
When we each had proseccos in hand like hungry babies with their bottles, we migrated toward an empty couch and some tables, upon which Timsy and Morensies said that I belong. I don’t tolerate succumbing to peer pressure and I want to become great role model with her shit together, so I climbed on the table and started bending over, screaming, and waving my prosecco in the air. Soon, Timsy was on the table with me, and we were reenacting some sort of high school dance meets Rack City, bitch. My blazer was somehow unbuttoned, and I really adhered to my morals by not giving a shit. I proceeded to scream “YOLO!!” and rap the entirety of Biggie’s Juicy, while Timsy yelled, “I think we’re going to have a child!”
I could formulate an elaborate story about what happened after that because I only recall two things actually happening: Me cutting my wrist totally by accident, as Timsy told me that, next time, the incision needs to be more vertical as opposed to diagonal, followed by me feeding Timsy a grilled cheese. So many questions. How did we get home? Did the gypsy cab driver rape us in the process? If so, should I take Plan B, or was he black and I should keep the baby so I can be a super chic mom? Did he rape Timsy, as well? Do we have AIDS? How did we know how to make a grilled cheese after twelve hours of drinking? Did I eat any more oil or butter than was already in the grilled cheese? Was I pretty? Was Timsy pretty? How were we still living?
When I woke up I had more questions/thoughts. Why are the lights on? When did Timsy get in my bed? His shoes are on. What is this black line across my face? My lipstick looks good. Am I pregnant? I feel thin. I’m, like, chic right now. I am totally the embodiment of my generation in this black bra/glitter shorts/shame ensemble. I am making a statement right now. Can I get lung cancer from smelling my hair? Is Timsy alive? Did I kill him? It’s not like me to kill. Did we fuck? Did he die because we fucked? How much butter did I eat last night? I usually stop eating at 6 pm. I want to act like a kitten. Meow. I want a Maine Coon.
I think what happened is that I had true, genuine fun with people who let me be my real, real weird self.
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