Lover...

So I went to a party last Saturday night, some bougie Hollywood type producer party. There was lots of Goldbergs and Weinsteins there. I looked fabulous, of course, effortless on my part. My new hairdresser, Christina [I had to fire the the retarded one, Mary], really out did herself. Though she kept wanting to give me a bikini wax, like she was really insistent on it. I was a little creeped out and declined.

Anywho, so I'm at this party, and of course, everyone wants to put me in their films. Seriously, Imp the new Hepburn. I have to play it coy, mostly because I am. I'm in the middle of chewing out Spielberg, when I have to excuse myself to the restroom. Seriously, he should be paying me back for that shit-fest War of the Worlds. I find the ladies room, and there, slumped over the toilet, is a strapping young lad. Its hard to tell if he is cute or not, with his face shoved in the bowl heaving, his curly blonde locks further obscuring his face, but I decide to take a gamble and try and console him.

When he is finally done, he stands and thanks me. Kinda of a strange guy, as he had two little red dimples colored in on his checks, but these Hollywood type parties of full of weirdos, so I didn't hold it against him. Besides, he was still kinda cute. He said his name was Sam with his cute little British accent. I swoon.

"Sam! You're a wreck, let me take you home before somebody takes advantage of you!" I tell him. He seems quite grateful. Frau is gonna get some tonight! Well, I finally get him home and he slumps over on the sofa and passes out. Fucker.

The next morning, when he wakes, I find out he isn't even British, he's Australian. I ain't dating some penal colony reject. So when he asks me out for breakfast, I had to promptly give him the boot to the curb. So yet again, poor Frau doesn't get a piece of the pie. Freaking Australians.

Maybe I'll call him...