Someday my prints will come ... off this dish...

Phew! Okay, so, getting sick this early in the seasonal coldness sucks. Hopefully this is not a harbinger of weeks and months to come, but I’m staying away from birds and small children with runny noses just in case!

Of course, sickness has never stopped me from a damn good reason to go out — I went to see Allen Ginsberg while attempting to douse a flaming temperature and full-blown bronchitis with ginger ale and diner food when I was 19 (remember Noddy?), and haven’t stopped since.

So, when VIP tix to the Beaux Arts Ball magically appeared, courtesy of Christine, who rawks, I downed the Sudafed, Advil, Tylenol, Robitussin, Vitamin C and Vicks like a trooper, because there’s nothing more fun than dancing around to bad ‘80s music and playing dress-up.

Makes no difference if the actual event is lame.

And, it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad, and the food was awesome, especially the multi-tiered chocolate fountain, and it took every ounce of willpower in my soul to keep from sticking my head under it and drowning in its sweet, chocolaty goodness.

Some day I will get one of my very own, which will sit right next to the Easy Bake Oven (sometimes you just gotta’ have cake!), uber cappuccino machine and Hello Kitty toaster.

Of course, life continues on post-ball, no glass slippers, prince charmings or even charming pauper, for chrissakes. But, I’d probably just laugh ol’ princy off to some grouchy stepsister anyway, considering the fact that one snippet of conversation between me and one of the rapidly multiplying short (sorry, short=death in dateland for me), obnoxious, trying way to fucking hard to impress men at this gig included, “So, just how small is your penis?”

See, I’m doomed. Singleton. Feral cats. Locked in an attic. Social pariah…

But, the thing is, I don’t care what you do, how much money you have or what purchases you’ve just made, if you’re treating the catering staff like shit and snapping your fingers at them, I hate you, because when I’m broke I work for a caterer, or a restaurant, or any other gig that’s not glamorous and involves serving dickheads who think an Armani suit immediately entitles them to belittle those they perceive to be below them.

But I digress, as I want to mention something very exciting, and while I can usually be found beating the crap out of him, calling him bitch and forcing him to feed me his home made, organic vegan delicacies or face certain death, Justin today surpassed us all and has made the lefty pinko communist big time! Bravo!!!

Park, my friend, when I visit next we shall celebrate: What’re you making?!!?!!?