heart full of napalm and holiday cheer. pt.1
Sunday was a tremendous day.
Several friends and I went to the Hippodrome theatre to see my roommate perform before heading to the Maude's holiday party. I picked up a few bottles of fantastic tempranillo at Emiliano's to contribute to the holiday cheer. The party was predictably debauched, everyone was splendidly dressed and in a capitol mood. We exchanged gifts and good-natured jibes with one another. I received a collection of "violations of literary propriety" and a set of highball glasses. I swept the Maude's superlatives, winning Most Likely To Rob the Cradle, Most Likely to Get Knocked Up, and Most Likely to Hang Out at Maude's When Not Working. Most notably, I was crowned both King and Queen, an unprecedented coup for pageant nominations and the social reconstruction of gender.
A few of us then snuck out and dashed over to the Top's holiday party, where the diversions continued. We conversed, danced, and, of course, drank more. My tiara was, sadly, stolen. Though I lamented the loss of the crown jewels, the tragedy paled in comparison to how the evening would ultimately end. That night, I met someone who would importune upon more than my faux-royal station, and rearrange more than simply the line of faux-royal succession. No, they would importune upon my very person, and rearrange the way in which my nose sits upon my face.
More to come.