The only thing I want popped is my Dom Pérignon.

M1nt. Bastion of all that is wondrously and unashamedly hedonistic. Also frequented by those who want to get it on with the laydies. Whether all the gentlemen at this establishment are wealthy or not, I do not know. Nor care really. It’s well stocked with premium vodka, mini sharks in tanks and, um, what else, mini sharks in tanks! Oh! And an abundance of young men who may or may not be in the financial industry, but who definitely think that popping their collars is a blue-chip stock when trying to get in your pants; safe and reliable, not like those leather ass-less chaps.

How dost thou know? I spent part of Saturday night wandering through the crowd at M1nt; politely rearranging these specifically collar afflicted men. Well, the way I see it, I wouldn’t want to wander around a reputable establishment with, say, toilet paper on my shoe. Or my skirt tucked into my underpants. Thus I thought it rather nice of me to either gently rearrange or subtly alert these men to the fact that they were in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction. A few thanked me; most backed away in incomprehension, or was it misapprehension? It was dark, I didn't chase them to find out. One man tried to engage me in conversation by boldly stating “some women like it that way”. Ha! This statement may be less incredulous if related to sexual assault, cocktails invented in the last three weeks (vodkatini anyone? oh my god, that was so five minutes ago), or even – at a stretch – men with hair product/s. Collars popped? No. Just no.

I’m going to make a broad generalization here: anyone who has sex with a man who parades the popped collar most likely does not know his last name, but does know the thread count of his sheets; after four dates he also calls you “babe”, which you and your friends think is adorable. Sorry to break it to you, but he probably figures it’s not polite to ask your name when his dick is in your mouth.

L'autre Petite Mort.

Inspired by New York Fashion Week, I have been contemplating my look for the next season. Contemplating very hard over a weekend bender which I emerged from emotionally unscathed and physically not quite as perfect. Not so bad weighing up the photographic evidence of the unseemly debauchery.

Anyway, I seem to have lost a few thousand brain cells and am decidedly more pallid. And then on Monday: genius!

edith: i think my look for the season is going to be bruised circles under the eyes. makes you look delicate and devious
caroline: A LITTLE DEATH AROUND THE EYES
edith: is it really a "look" if it's just the way your life turned out?
caroline: do we care if we are hot?

And just like that, the denouement! The look for the season: A Little Death.

It's nice sometimes to find there was a point to all the drugs and alcohol we've consumed - I mean, a point other than peer group pressure and social lubrication.


(Now it's almost 6pm, I figure it's a good time to start putting on the make up. At the rate I'm going, I'll be all dolled up in time to leave work and head straight to a bar. Any bar. Although given that right now I look like Marcel Marceu attacked by a slut stick, perhaps I should favour areas where I'm known to just look like a whore, not whore it out too. Ho-hum.)

Working 9 to 5

Morning after damage control.

10:45am still drunk from the night before

edith: morning sunshine

caroline: i'm in bed. with bobby. moron.

edith: oh nice. i just got into work and out of bed. with jack. hot.

caroline: lesbo boss just called. crappy.

edith: what did you say today?

caroline: doctor

edith: me too! woman bits doctor. i mean, there was someone looking between my legs.

12pm sobering up

caroline: um. she wants a doctor's note from me, by the end of the day. help?!

edith: sure, i'll make you a doctor's note. what kind of doctor did you say you went to? i have a psychiatrist's note, and a normal doctor note here. i can mock something up.

caroline: are you my saviour today?

edith: perhaps . . . i'm starting to get hungover. ugh. i think i'm actually getting legitimitely sick.

caroline: oh fun! go to the doctor and get me a real note!

edith: i already went to the doctor today, apparently.

caroline: oh shit. me too. sucks.

1pm so very very not good

edith: get the note? you like? shall i fax? who even uses faxes these days. you really do not work for a real company. maybe it's a front for office cube worker fetish www porn

caroline: i guess i should not be doing what i'm doing then.

edith: um. right.

1:50pm alcoholic

caroline: yay! looks perfect. and bobby and i didn't even have sex last night!

edith: this is probably the lowest we've ever got. we going out tonight?