- Half My Soul -
It was a tiresome day of flouncing from fashion show to show and missing a party was unthinkable. The fashion week party: the only way to see if your life is truly worth living. Remember how Cinderella met Prince Charming at the ball? That is the importance of the after party. Rented spaces in chic clubs surrounded by only the best fakers the industry has to offer. He may look legit and have a great business card but, chances are, he tagged along with someone he made friends with at Blue Bottle that same day when he grabbed the wrong coffee.
There was no way I was going to miss this event over a mere mortal issue of sleepiness. So, like any twenty-something, I veiled my eyes and outlined my lips and hop/skipped away to meet my rendition of Prince Charming. I was hopeful, as hopeful as I was when I bought shoes a size too small with plans on actually wearing them (which I was, right now). Needless to say, the hop and skip turned into a limp and drag to the front door. I was greeted by a PR intern who took her job too seriously. She glanced me over and said, "we're at capacity." Distraught, I moaned "but the party started thirty minutes ago…". She looked me over and, in a snippy voice, chimed "well maybe if you decided to use lotion we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Fuck! I never use lotion!
I stomped around begging for guidance to enter the party I was not polished enough for. In the midst of my temper tantrum, a rustle in the dark alley caught my attention. I directed my vision towards the sound and... bam! Out emerged Russell Simmons. He came to me, godly almost. He reached his hand out towards my face and claimed he could help me into the party. And, just like that, I was at the bar, red velvet vodka in hand. Repulsive drinks were just the small price one had to pay to be where I was standing, but not me. I turned to the bartender and said "what do I have to do for a normal drink here?"
Needless to say, I sold half my soul for Tito's that night.