At some point on Sunday morning (in the very early hours of the morning), I looked into my bag and realized that it contained only this: (see corresponding picture). At the beginning of the night, it contained my wallet (Gucci, thank you very much), my slidy Samsung phone, my passport (!!!) and all of my credit cards. The good news was that I still had my Marc Jacobs bag and Chanel lipgloss. The bad news is that I had no form of identification and a handful of change. Oh, and I was supposed to be leaving to DRIVE HOME from MINNESOTA to NEW JERSEY with my father in, oh, six hours.
This is how I remember things: I realized I was in I's room, that he had been, somehow, in the cab with me, that earlier in the night I had been at the Saloon, that I and myself had called my cell and the driver had picked up, that he then hung up on us, particularly after I screamed over the phone for him to "bring back my fucking Gucci wallet."
Let me put this out there: I've been known for some bad behavior. But never, ever, had it had consequences like this. Seeing as I was locked out of the house where my bags were, had no idea where T and E (my two partners in crime at the Saloon) were, or how the fuck I was going to get a visa or drive without any identification, I called the police and proceeded to cry for two hours to the sweet, unsuspecting officer the department sent out. Nothing. Next day, nothing. Oh, and I did I mention at this point that it was now officially mother's day?
For the next twenty-something hours, I sat in the driver's seat of the car, weighting out what moment it would be best to tell my father what the hell had happened--in edited form, of course. Never, ever have I felt so sick in my entire life. When I finally couldn't explain why I hadn't been text messaging like a fiend (as I usually do), I had to break to news: "I don't have my cell phone. Or wallet. Or for that matter passport. On the upnote, your hair looks fabulous, what on earth did you do?"
My father is not a patient man. Or for that matter, an understanding one. He makes his living defending corporate animals. He expects things to be done. He doesn't like hastles. The firestorm that ensued, I cannot even describe.
When I got home, things only got worse. People have actually asked me if my mother does coke or takes amphetamines, she's that high-strung and anxious, critical and hysterical all the time. Seriously. There is no way to describe her except as a hail storm spinning a la tornado and always at a scale five. The screaming could be heard down the street. After she hit me with the nearest thing she could find, she went on to scream at the top of her lungs for twenty minutes. After which I went to my dad's office, and slept on the floor.
This is that naked nightmere, the one where you realize that you've gotten to school and everyone is pointing and laughing because you're ass naked. I have no proof I exist. I have no idea how I'm going to get a new anything. I have no phone. And I'm sleeping on the floor of an office to preserve my own life. This is that naked nightmere, minus the anesthesia. Shoot me. In the face.
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