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Meet Chad Allen: Check.
Dance with Tori Spelling: Check.
Pray with Tori Spelling, who has just been anointed some kind of reverend or something: Check.
Drink something pink: Double check.
Say "Holy shit, was that Barney Frank?": Check.
Gaze just a moment too long at Wilson Cruz's ass: Check and check.
Flirt with Suzanne Westenhoefer: Check.
Momentarily forget where I am and wonder why none of the guys are hitting on me: Check.
Watch some pretty girl dance, wish I was a pretty, normal girl like that, then suddenly realize she's transgender too, just way better at it. Check.
Fuck up my "bad" eardrum by getting too close to the speaker, re-re-re-rendering me unable to hear on that side, except for a constant, maddening RINGGGGG noise: sadly, Check.
Hug all my gay male friends, then suddenly realize that somewhere along the way I've become Grace from "Will and Grace" only fatter and funnier and with actual boobs: Check.
See a really enjoyable movie at a really cool theatre: Check.

Bonus Round: Drive past the site of my very first paid employment, the McDonald's store my Uncle used to own at 330 S. Broadway: Check.

Thanks to a lifesaving tip from [livejournal.com profile] e_ticket I got a cute haircut immediately before the event. I woke up this morning and had this uncontrollable urge to lop off six inches. Jesus, what is it with me?

I love getting this note at 4:30pm: "oh, by the way, we're filming you tomorrow at 11 before the rehearsal so please have a presentation ready." Totally out of the blue. So I will be writing and rehearsing a brief introductory monologue in the next...oh, say, all night. And showing up camera ready. Could we fold a few more hours into the morning so I can sleep off the party first? No? No intradimensional temporal beds handy? Hm. Pish.

I found out this morning that they had lined up Mink Stole to play my grandmother. Er, Kit's grandmother. But they decided to cut the scene for time. I found out those two things in the same sentence. Verily, Hollywood giveth, and Hollywood taketh away. When I go to direct the feature, though, you can bet I'll be giving Ms. Stole a call.

I have to sleep. I didn't drink much, but I feel a kind of queasy euphoria about all this that I have no idea what to do with. Scary. Fun, but scary. Honestly, just between you and me, I looked out at this sea of stylish hipster fame and wonderful festive debauchery all around me, the swirling lights and bartender-models and giveaway-Mercedes and thought--"jeez, you know, I'm just this geeky girl from the trailer park across from the racetrack, I got this outfit from the Salvation Army, are you people sure you wanna let me in here?" For some reason they did. One thing about my life, it's always full of surprises. I wonder where we're going next.

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badatapologies

August 2009

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