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It's my last night of yoga teacher training. Well, last night of being in New York, having fun. Teacher training ended on Friday and it seemed like a good idea to have a few days after to hang out with friends. Until now.
Lets just discuss what's happening here...I'm super, duper high and in a 6,000sq ft house in Bedford, NY. Who is my company? A Playboy Playmate, who we will call the Bunny, because that's obvious. Although, come to find out, there IS a difference between a Playmate and a Bunny, but you can google that.
How did I get here? The past 13 minutes of the Playmate's incoherent name dropping have felt like hours. HOURS.
I met the Bunny about a month ago when I first walked into the studio and plopped down on a folded blanket around a sharing circle. She was pretty and had cute clothes, so I thought, cool. She had these super cool pants that had like, slashes in them, and I liked her glasses and Perfect Bun hair (I now own a Perfect Bun, btw). She also had a throaty laugh and beckoning smile, plus she wasn't 23 like many of the others in class. Little did I know that a week later I would be actively trying to avoid being cornered by her, telling me her latest yogic revelation, name drop, or other ridiculous story I didn't ask to hear.
She is one of those weirdos who thinks that they like to remain anonymous, until they actually are anonymous. Having achieved some level of B or C-list fame - I'm not actually sure what status a usual Playboy Bunny/Playmate has as we aren't talking about Holly or Kendra here - and living in Hollywood still means that you can feel like somebody. In New York, no one really gives a shit. Isn't that great? I saw Naomi Campbell walking down the road a couple of years ago and thought, "Hm. That's a skinny, tall black lady" and moved on with my day until a realized it was her an hour later. It just happens. Famous people live places, too. Kyle MacLachlan of Twin Peaks fame is from Yakima, for christ's sake. He wandered into my friend's shop in downtown WW a few weeks ago and she asked if he was a relative of hers, thinking he looked kind of familiar.
So, in short, most normal people don't give a shit about celebrities, because celebrities or even "celebrities" are still just fuckers like the rest of us, aren't they. The Bunny loved being anonymous only until she realised that none of us had ANY idea who she was. Then, when she spilled the beans to me and Craig and we didn't freak out and tell everyone else, she suddenly had a burning desire to tell everyone her life story. "Fraud" is the term she used, I guess. If I identified myself with everything I've done in my life I probably would just die. It's too overwhelmingly shameful. Nevermind that I still, after a full month of spending every day together, couldn't tell you what most people in that class do for a living. We all just showed up.
Have you ever been in the situation where you are suddenly transported back to a time in life (i.e. Camp Chiajuana for Girls or whatever) when you honestly believe that what you are doing is so revelatory, so important, that you will never forget the group of people that you're going through it with? I cried. Honestly wept in front of twenty other people at the closing ceremony (obvi there was burning sage, for real) just two days ago. I'm not sure if that's enlightenment or just like, temporary insanity but I can feel the shroud of cynicism gently enrobing me once again, and I'm damn happy about it.
Anyway, we all had this great idea to do a barbeque post-training out in Bedford, which is where one of the coolest cats I know lives and she invited us to check out her new house. There was some discussion of a sleepover, but since I was the only person who was excited about it, we made it a Game of Thrones viewing night. So spoiled. I got to watch the first three episodes of this season at the TED office thanks to Aya's boyfriend. Uh-mazing. I've been so cracked out on Game of Thrones I haven't even cared about Mad Men. Or shopping. It's a big deal. An hour on the Metro North from Harlem and voilá, le chateau. This house is awesome. AWESOME. It's covered in windows and is a cool, traditional looking house but with all of this ecclectic/mid-century modern stuff going on inside. I love that. Who else is there? My oh my, it's the Bunny, just sipping on a glass of wine with Kate's boyfriend/co-inhabitant, an unwelcome yet existing person to the party. Surprise surprise to all of us, there she is, talking about some inane thing that went in one ear and out the other.
Midway through celebratory delicious wine, we pull out a little medicinal marijuana chocolate. I have never experienced pot from something that actually has packaging before. We all go for a little nibble, aside from the Bunny, and about thirty minutes into dinner everyone is stressing out. Except the Bunny. I don't know if any of you have ever been super super high when someone you know isn't high around you, but it's stressful. The last time I felt this stressed stoned was when I was in Seattle at a friend's condo, and I was sure that I would be unable to back my car out of the drive without going over the ever-growing granite cliff of my mind. That night in Seattle we watched Never Ending Story, which is a terrible moving to watch because if you are at all anxious about the passage of time, it truly never ends, and there is a lot of crazy shit going on in there. Too much. Maybe TV viewing isn't the best for me in this condition, because before that was an incident with Tron, the new one. Don't even get me started about how confusing it is that REAL Jeff Bridges is IN Tron but CG Jeff Bridges is IN REAL LIFE. Again, too much. That and all of the moto-light-cycle races that happen in that, with the disappearing roads and whatnot. And what is #3 from House doing in this? Ugh.
Kate and boyfriend disappear, he thinks he's about to go through cardiac arrest and she's afraid of saying something bitchy to the Bunny. Game of Thrones is forgotten...but not by me. The Playmate and I head downstairs to watch, because at this point I'm adamant that I not miss a single moment. As we were trying to figure out some multi-zillion dollar projector screen (totally normal for her, I'm pretty sure she told me she slept with John Mayer or something. He probably has a projector screen, too.) the corduroy from the couch was feeling really intense under my feet. THE RIDGES! I cowered in the corner of the sectional, trying to slowly melt into it. We made it through the last 10 minutes of GOT, which was pretty much the whole reason I wanted to spend the night, anyway, but then, in order to wait for the next episode, have to sit through an hour of VEEP. In any normal state, I would probably like this show. In this state, I do not. It's horrible. Three minutes feels like thirty. I can't focus on the story line. I don't get the sarcasm, or do I? I'm afraid to laugh at inappropriate times. I'm afraid the Playmate will know I'm high. I'm afraid I will throttle her and tell her to stop telling me about the person texting her dirty pictures that, no, I don't want to see. I'm afraid we will start talking about nipple size and sex and parties and famous people. We do. I can't take it anymore...so when she goes to the bathroom I bolt upstairs as fast as I can. Sneaky! I run to the guest room, close the door, and hide under the comforter, texting Craig, Joelle, Ben, and Aya in search of anything soothing.
I miss Game of Thrones.
Moving on. Here are some of the texts that I sent in my state.
So, as you can imagine. I passed out soon after the discussion of mac and cheese sandwich. The idea is too great to even fathom, and it overwhelmed my already over-stimulated senses with its ridiculousness, rendering me incapacitated and in a state of unconsciousness. The next morning I awakened, and everything was fine. The bunny was asleep and hadn't come to ask me why I left her the previous night, and my friend had recovered from her fit of being fairly sure she and her boyfriend were going to die.
That, my friends, is why you should never do drugs.
Until you forget about it and try again.