Vince

I had a dream last night in which someone was explaining to me that my basic problem in life is my issues with "control." I smiled evilly and with great rage and condescension at the speaker in the dream, but I simultaneously thought to myself, "Why, yes, actually. That is my problem. I should really be able to accept that spot-on critique." That's why when I am invited to a party like the one Alyse had for her birthday on Friday - a party in Brooklyn - Brooklyn! - a borough which everyone knows I find insufferable - on a roof - a roof! - so of course I spent the whole night afraid that I would fall off the roof and splatter on the concrete below - when I felt bloated - bloated! - and then was introduced to a young lady I was sure I'd met before, but only when she insisted that she didn't know me did I realize that she was an actress in my favorite television show - now, sadly, cancelled - famous people! - and when, every time the doorbell rang, a still-hotter fellow entered the party - hot fellows while I'm bloated! - it can seem like my antithesis.

But in reality, Alyse's party was the most fun I've had in a while. Everyone was so nice to me, and I was so nice to everyone! I didn't stalk the celebrity. I noticed a guest wandering near the corner of the roof by himself, checking his messages, and I went over and engaged him in friendly conversation. I partook of the communal pasta. I helped carry things back downstairs to Alyse's friend Josh's apartment. I didn't make any new enemies, which is huge for me. Why was I so relaxed, even with all the afore-mentioned goings-on?

Then Alyse posted this picture on my Facebook wall, and I remembered: it was a black party, but I chose to wear plaid. I think this shirt is by Vince. And at one point during the party, the very hot Cassandra (seated next to me) offered me her bedazzled armband. It was so sparkly, it appeared to have been made out of Liza Minnelli. I demurred, as that was her accessory. I had to be in control the whole time, at least of my appearance.

I have a friend named Hermann who would say to this post, "Girl, you just need to get f*cked." Oh, Hermann. He says that about everything I say, actually. And then sometimes, (much to my surprise), I find him putting his advice into action. Was that him in the dream? Does anyone wear Vince anymore? Why am I so often in Brooklyn? One night in the near future, I will dream the answers to these questions, and more.