I think by now the 72 hour hangover has subsided and evolved into a much more effective body annihilator--the flat-out flu. If anyone thought I was packin' (ahem) walnuts 'neath my jaws, well, you were wrong. Those, in fact, are just my inflamed glands. And funny how when I'm sick I never get that sexy, smoky, jazz singer voice. Oh no, I sound like Gerard Depardieu. And thanks to Chez Pot Roast's fabulous New Year's feast, I bet I look a little like aforementioned fat Frenchman as well.
A shout out then belongs to Chef Pot Roast who so kindly threw the holiday party that would in the end, really, kill me. I'm surprised I didn't tuck his meatballs into my jacket pockets as I slipped out of his apt. at dawn. The tira-milkshake, though resembling slightly in consistency to that of an alcohol-induced bowel movement (which of course I would have no knowledge of), was so tasty that I almost enjoyed it again the next afternoon as I struggled not to make a donation to the porcelain demi-god. Also, 10 a.m. is when a lot of things happen--it's when The New Yorker staff is supposed to get into the office; it's when my neighborhood liquor store opens; it's when Ellen's talk show airs in New York. It was also the time I went to bed on New Year's day. All in all though, I'd say the soiree was a success, even though I've lost recollection of pockets of time, but I've heard those periods were fun too ;)
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