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.


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