Whitey Houston Barbie

Saturday night. Barbie night. I started out as Whitney, Barbie’s brunette friend. It evolved into Whitney Houston, and ended with Whitey Houston Barbie. I put my hair up into a bob, walked around with a bottle of champagne, and yelled Bobby! a lot. It was superb. There are some very tasteless pictures on my friend’s camera, and I learned that she chooses some very odd times to be modest. Like, if I’m laying in the bathtub while you take pictures of me surrounded by pill bottles, and then ask if it’s ok if you pee while I’m in there, turning on the sink to muffle your pee sounds won’t make it any less obvious. But I do understand asking me to leave while you pull your spanx back up. That’s just ladylike. Speaking of ladylike, I found myself a Barbie night makeout buddy. (I got lost giving the cab driver directions to my own house, btw. So, good decision-making was in full-swing.)

It was a great night, but now my cold is back. My only consolation is that guy I made out with is probably also sick. He said my name a lot and really, really liked my hair and touching it. However, we did not have sex. I’m not that kind of girl. Who laughed at that? Actually,we didn’t have sex due to his inability to, umm, perform. I don’t remember if I called him Bobby. I hope I did. His name was actually Dave. The best part is that I met and gave my number to a different Dave on Thursday night and when he wanted to go home with me and I said no and then he started texting me after I got home and wanted to come over, I still said no and told him if that’s all he was looking for, then he could fuck off b/c I’m not interested. Ah, the workings of a drunk Amy.


A long, long time ago, approximately 8 years, Shayne and I were drinking over at our friend Krissy’s house. We had driven together and decided to just crash on her couches instead of attempting the drive home. The room is engulfed in darkness, the house is quiet and the gentle lull of traffic drifts me off to sleep. Slowly, nonchalantly, the silence is broken and I am pulled back into wakefullness by a looonnnggg, sssllllooooowww zzzzzzzzzzzziip.



“That better not have been your pants.”


From that moment, our lives were consumed by dontworryaboutit. It applied to everything! What did you have for lunch? Dontworryaboutit. Are you going to pay for that? Dontworryaboutit. Is this your weed? Dontworryaboutit. But, like any great fad, it faded away and we moved on to our next great line. Fast forward to the spring of 2010 and my friendship with Joey is begun, through our mutual friend, and his roommate, Shayne. We tell Joey the story of dontworryaboutit and it is suddenly reborn! Like a forgotten toy, tucked away in a musty attic and discovered by a child, the toy is dusted off and it’s joy spreads anew! Let’s tell everyone, we say. Let’s write a book, we say. Spread the word of dontworryaboutit. And spread it I did.

A mere week or two later, I was off to the Sasquatch music festival with my friend, Maria. Due to a series of awesomely unfortunate events, we ended up spending a night in Seattle. We met some wonderful people, whom we still keep in touch with today. I spread the word of dontworryaboutit to all of them.

But it didn’t stop there. I used it with our neighbours on the gorge “terrace”. I used it with strangers. I used it with new friends. On the last night, we danced to Vampire Weekend while we drank a bottle of water laced with mdma. Back at our campsite, we decided to go slumming in the general camping area and look for a party. We found one. A rickety old van with speakers strapped to the top of it. I started a conversation with a young man who had dropped acid. I don’t know how long we talked for, but the more we talked, the bigger the sky got. The romance overtook us and we decided to venture back to his tent. Naked, mid-thrust, an idea occurs to me.

“What’s your name again?”

He says, “Christopher. What’s yours?”