party panther is sleeping tonight

Ever since the fury and frenzy of the accelerated wedding honeymoon weeks, I'm plain tuckered out. I mean, how much sex, fun and partying can one girl take? So, it should come as no surprise that for the last week, since I've come back to Paris, I haven't really bothered to go out... no openings, no parties. I've been staying at home, baking pies, watching dvds, smoking joints and drinking chicken soup... and sneaking off for one solid day of tennis. (brought drugs and kleenexes)

Of course it didn't hurt that I was sick as a dog. But, coming from a confirmed social monster, this is a welcome surprise: I love my apartment. I live across from a small park, facing southwest, in the east part of Paris, the 20th arrondissment. It's a quartier that's becoming filled with unconfirmed artists and musicians, so the area is a mix between ethnic and hidden boho corners. Other benefits are cheap markets, great bars, and a central line to the centre.

But, even as I'm writing this, I have to confess something. Everyday I check out a little site, vodkacoca, to find out what the social calendar for the night holds. This is a fun blog run by some guys, who I MUST know because they go to all the same parties I'm at. It's terrible and addictive, and it saves me from calling all the contacts to figure out who's going to what party when. Around 6, I click and there's the nightly plan. On the other hand, it makes me a little depressed that in a town the size of Paris, we can still find all the same people at all the same parties. If everybody is going out all the time to the same things, and seeing the same people, we're all getting super bored of each other, and right now, I'm a little bored of it all.

You thought it was glamour all the time? Guess again. Being a bona-fide party panther requires endurance, fitness, and perserverance. It's requires training (with drugs), a solid liver, endless supply of new bad jokes, and a dashing wardrobe. I always have to be seen laughing with a glass in one hand and a beautiful partner on the other. Ever since the debacle the FIAC night, with that guy who unsuccessfully tried to snog me, have decided to drop below radar and concentrate on making artwork. Because if I actually make work, they'll all have to see me as a successful artist, instead of just an art groupie. Gag. As if artists are really THAT cool. (sometimes I like to protect my faux groupie status...just because. at least then I don't have to worry about people sucking up to me for my power... they're just doing it because I look good.)

I suggested the other day, to the Voin, that they should make partying an Olympic sport so that Bulgaria could get its first gold medal. He does it better than the rest of us. Why, just the other day, the king of the suck-ups came up to me to find out what the deal was with him.

-How does he do it? How does he know everybody and always get invited to parties and dinners?
-Well, it's because he's a nice guy.
-A nice guy? It's that simple.
-Yes dumb dumb. And he wasn't born yesterday, you careerist pig.
-oh, ok. But you're not nice.
-But I'm still invited. Oh, thanks for the scotch. You're really nice.

definitely not a barn-burner, this shit post. I'm going out tomorrow night...

(god, what are you doing with your time!? it would be better just to run out and tear your clothes off, jump into a pool of GHB cognac so you would have something decent to blog about. Did it already.)