"...like, when I did the Vanity Fair show? like, there were these girls sitting on my stuff, and I was, like... and one of my girls was, like, crying? because she couldn't walk in high heels, and I was like, 'You're not a lady if you can't walk in heels.' And like, at the Vanity Fair show?... did I mention I was in the Vanity Fair show?"
Really, she was kind of nice. I guess. In that completely shallow, "I'm 20 years old but I'VE BEEN TO NEW YORK so I KNOW," my-whole-sense-of-self-worth-is-contained-in-my-portfolio sort of way. I tried. Really, I did. I just couldn't find a single thing this girl and I have in common other than the fact that she bears an uncanny resemblance to a porn star version of Margit Anderson. Which is hot, yes. But WHO CARES?
It was a good time. Kind of a choreographed version of Let's Play Dress Up, but with free beer. The backstage area of any show I've ever been in - and let it be said here that I have very little experience - always reminds me of the waiting room in a psychiatrist's office, which I have a lot of experience with. A bunch of anxious girls sitting around twiddling their hair, biting their nails, fighting off a caffeine- or psychotropic drug-induced twitchiness. Only with more talk amongst each other, said talk usually centered around one of three topics: 1) gossiping by hair-twiddlers about the other hair-twiddlers, 2) the male gender and its vast assortment of inherent defects (there is nothing I hate more than to hear members of either gender bitching about their partners, as though they were betrothed and have no choice in who to be with) 3) shopping; specifically, shoe shopping.
I got nothin'. I fold.
And then I took one of the other models home, a local girl I've seen around who was very nice and as it turns out is the owner of the "terrible voice" of a local band which shall remain nameless and which I heard a co-worker bitching about the other day ("I love that band, but MAN her voice is grating"). And the sad thing is, I could actually hear what he was talking about as she was speaking. But that's not what I wanted to share. What I wanted to share is that on the way to her house, she mentioned her boyfriend and referred to him as "my boy thing."
Repeating for effect: My boy thing.
Who are these people? How did I get here?
Hey. Free beer.
Posted by stephanie at November 19, 2004 09:40 PM