My Bachelorette Party Wasn’t Exactly The Hangover, But I’m pretty Sure My Friends & I Are On A Bathroom Shower Spy Cam Website

27 Aug

So my bachelorette party was a few weekends ago, so I guess I’d better blog it. I mean, something funny and worth talking about must have happened, right? Not really. My 9 bridesmaids and I didn’t put anything up our noses (though I think that some of them were jokingly asking me if I wanted to so they could gage my reaction and go from there), and we didn’t see any unexpected wangs. Because doing cocaine and seeing  unexpected wangs are predominantly what happens during bachelorette weekends, right? Instead of those things we kept a steady buzz for 72+ hours, walked around New York City with roadies (New York made us do that, with their pre-made plastic cups containing ice in every convenience store), got ripped off on Canal Street (okay, just I got ripped off on Canal Street because I can’t handle a pack of stealth Asians throwing numbers and faux Hermes in my face in a shady 4 by 4 room after I’ve had 9 mimosas. BUT WHO CAN HANDLE THAT?!), and went to fancy places that made us look like ripping white trash from Quincy. We also went to the same joint where Carrie and Big had their engagement party and reenacted the scene in which Miranda screams “I CHANGED WHO I WAS FOR YOU!” at a cheating Steve, but I feel like that’s not something I should admit, let alone blog. Crazy. Like a FOX. (eh?)

Another thing “crazy” about my once in a lifetime weekend was that it was in Harlem. People laughed at us and told us to bring pepper spray when they learned where we were staying, but I just think those people are racist, because Harlem was more than fine. In fact, it was cultural as fuck and had the best sneaker selection I’ve seen as well as the best bottomless mimosa deal I’ve ever heard of. Word. The only somewhat crazy aspect of Harlem was that the penthouse we stayed in (which was a bed and breakfast hosted by a man who looks like George Feeney) had a shower that broke on day 2 of our stay and instead of getting Ian the gardener (no lie, that was the name of Feeney’s maintenance man) to fix the shower, Feeney- the dog- made us shower in his unit. Some of my friends were all in an uproar because “what if he’s a pervert?!” and “what if he has a camera in the shower?!” and “what if he comes into the bathroom while we are showering and cuts us into a million pieces and hides our body under a crawlspace?!”, but me? Nah. Most people are good. I’m optimistic. And even if Feeney does have a video on the internet of us in the shower, then I’m cool with it. Because I was already violated on day two of the bachelorette party when my sister paid a black man at Hunk O Mania twenty bucks to sexually assault me in front of 100+ people. So it’s really whatever at this point.


Fin.b1 b2


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