I was invited to a sex party in the Hollywood hills. It was all very clandestine. My picture had to be approved before they would let me in. I talked about it all week. My big sex party night. To whomever I thought would appreciate it. I imagined what it would be like. I picked out what I was going to wear. And then, I never heard from them again. I was never given the address. I am not sure if I was supposed to request the address, but nevertheless, it is now 9 pm and I have no idea where the party is and I am feeling more like wearing my pajamas than a sexy dress. They said it started at 10 pm sharp. But I imagine they must give people enough time to get there? I mean, it is LA, everything does take 20 minutest to get anywhere, but that is without traffic, and there is ALWAYS traffic in Los Angeles.

Update; I took a bath and spent 20 minutes digging an ingrown hair out of my pubic line. The excavation site alone would make a lesser man tremble.

I don’t think I am going to the party.

I am in my pajamas.

I decided to take a Klonopin instead.

Plus I may have a broken toe.

I like this quote right now: (OF COURSE I am thinking of HP!) 

“I love you. It’s no big deal. It doesn’t mean you’re The One, or even one of the ones. It doesn’t mean you have to love me back. It doesn’t mean we have to date, or marry, or even cuddle. It doesn’t mean we have to part ways dramatically in a flurry of tears and broken dishes. It doesn’t mean I’ll love you until I die, or that I’ll still love you next year, or tomorrow.”


Besides, according to my little healer buddy Fredd that I take walks with every week, there is no ONE out there for me. I am the ONE I have been seeking and the second I get that, all will be well. 


  1. Perhaps not going, if you indeed did not, was for the best: sex is one of the many things that make people unreasonable – the situation could been a group of unreasonable people. And, of course, you can assume there would be drugs, which dramatically increases your chances of randomly being murdered.


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