This is the way forward: You invite all your friends over and then you hire someone to come, cook, serve, clean up, and roll. You pour this person a lot of drinks because you don’t want him to feel left out of anything. Everything becomes amazing.
Now you have plenty of time to get casually roaring with your friends while you debate the ins and outs, but mostly the outs, of ivy league institutions like a super-wanker, like the most pretentious person on earth. Be sure to eat everything on your plate and some of the things on your neighbor’s plate. Then ditch all talk to swan around to old Ella songs. Next stop: breaking the folding table that had once served as the dinner table. Kick that table because it was entirely extraneous anyway.
Realize that it is 2 am. As it happens, 2 am is the PERFECT time to cut your hair. You are just the person for the job. You have never been more ready, more primed, more totally at ease with a pair of scissors and a sense of sartorial direction. You got this. Chop chop chop. Sprinkle bits of hair everywhere, laughing at them as they fall, then collapse into bed while muttering something about Federer getting robbed at Wimbledon and that you had a hat with his name on it somewhere, but where, where?? No. She is enjoying life out and about on someone else’s head and is lost to you now, dead and gone. Good riddance. Sleep in a blouse and with one leg still a-stocking’d. ZZZZZ.
Guests remain in the apartment. Ah well, they can see their way out. Or not. It’s good either way. Because this is the way forward.