Friday, July 08, 2005
Tuesday evening the irreplaceable, embraceable Ms. Lindsay Sykes celebrated her 22nd year on this planet by hosting our questionable yet alarmingly chic band of riffraff for a night of pure revelry.
There was gin. There was tonic. But mostly there was gin.
The Fab Middle School Five were in attendance, namely Ashley, Lauren, Lindsay (of course), Marcus, and I. Whitney, Chris and Tyler (first mention) were also representing strongly.
As for everyone else, well, sometimes I drink too much.
Sometimes I kick Tyler in the side with my elegant-looking foot.
Sometimes Whitney and I embrace the pure elegance of extreme close-ups.
Sometimes I let Marcus drive me home and let the chips fall where they may. A technique also known as "we slept together". Now I’ll admit to being a part of some complicated situations in my time, including a few heavy-petting sessions with my ex-future husband’s (ex-FH) best friend, flings with ex-cons, pizza delivery boys, pathological liars, and small-time porn actors. However, what happened on Tuesday night will go down in Drew’s Bizarre Hook-Up Hall of Fame. You see, Marcus and I have been friends since we were mere toddlers. He was the first boy I ever had a real crush on (aside from Daniel Hickstein, but he moved away after kindergarten). My involvement with Marcus has never been of the Dawson’s Creek variety (I only save that sort of thing for unemployed pot heads and lefthanded bass players who are afraid of my feminine wiles). After a night out, the natural progression of things was, of course, to arrive back at my apartment to drink tall glasses of water and peruse Martha Stewart Magazine. How we moved from the shared enjoyment of yuppy publications to the backs of each other’s throats at four in the morning I’ll never know. Getting to know Marcus in the biblical sense was a bit like sleeping with myself. An out of body experience, if you will. Have you ever seen Quantum Leap? I’m rambling.
Moving on.
Sometimes I laugh it all off with wild abandon the next morning.
Happy birthday, darling – we’re getting much to old for this sort of thing.
