I couldn’t bring myself to do silk or sparkles. Come to think of it, I might just have skipped the Creed, and I never skip. Today was cotton. You know, except for the panties, cause I don’t think I own any of those anymore, not even my period panties are cotton. I’d never buy stock in Hanes.
I would buy stock in Matt; god bless him for taking me to The Gansevoort Hotel (Besides the photography in all the rooms and halls, I designed their site, too). It’s the Abercrombie & Fitch Vanity Fair Party, and the celebs are out, from Ivanka to Sisey Spacek. Oh, and ya know, all the Abercrombie boys. Raaaarw.
My eve begins with a sneak peak preview of possibly the worst chick flick I’ve ever seen, Little Black Book (more on this later), with my movie partner in crime, Monique. But I don’t mind that the movie is for shite because the company and conclusions are amazing (more on this later).
After the movie, I cruise into the hotel and hop onto the roof, where I meet and see many redheads. This is very strange. It’s like seeing a black person at a Dido concert; music can be gentrifying. If redheads had a theme song, it would be by AC/DC, and pole-dancing would be involved. Of course everyone is beautiful, the kind of beauty that makes you want to touch things and hold in your stomach. I talk to everyone, and surprisingly all these gorgeous faces had genuine smiles. I’m sure they spent a long time making themselves look like they didn’t, using products with "Plump" and "Bed" in their names. You couldn’t see the vanity, and surprisingly, you didn’t hear it either. These were the pros. Then, across the room, I spot a gorgeous smile. Oh my god, I know it.
It’s Rachael Sieden, a woman seen last in sixth grade. I remember playing barbies with her; we probably made the dolls have seex. Turns out Rachael had stumbled upon my site only three days ago. She googled one of my ex boyfriends, and then she found my Greek Tragedy and shared it with him.
Then it was bedtime. I meet Andrew, Luke, Sebastian, Mark, Sean, and a few others I can’t remember anymore outside. Still, I attempt the cab hail, and while outside these absolutely breathtaking men approach and invite me to join them at PM, or Lotus, or wherever. Here’s the thing, in the past, that would have done it for me. I would have squealed to my friends the next morning. But I’m growing into myself now, and there’s more to life than pretty faces. I’ve learned that PM means bedtime and Linus, not beautiful boys and a nightclub. Call me crazy; call me a redhead.
Okay, I know, enough Stephanie, just show us the goods. Go look for yourselves >>