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Wednesday, July 26th, 2006

Subject:don't puke where you live
Time:6:22 pm.
So I had a pretty long, rough job yesterday, and after fifteen hours of driving around and makeup spackling and hairspraying and shooting and sundry bullshit, I was pretty happy to walk into the apartment close to midnight last night to find both of my roommates absent. I shuffled across the dining room toward the table, and suddenly I felt something cold and slimy close around my foot.

It was a slimy single-serving cup of chocolate pudding which had rolled out of a grocery bag that somebody stuck under the table. Inside the grocery bag were at least ten identical empty pudding cups, several empty boxes of cookies, and two wet teabags.

I kicked away the pudding cup that had befouled my toe and went into the bathroom. A humid, chocolate-pudding-and-body-fluid stench filled the air. Chocolate pudding puke was splashed all over the back of the toilet seat and in rivulets on the walls.

Glorious. Bulimic roommate in tha house, y’all. Where the hell is the secret shame, though? Wouldn't any bulimic worth her Russell's sign take the time to clean the toilet? Think the overwhelmingly obvious “I was purging in here!!!!” sign that she grafittied in chocolate pudding on the bathroom walls is meant to be a cry for help? Is she just waiting for me to confront her with the grocery bag full of chocolate pudding empties so she can tearfully confess her eating disorder hell? Purge yourself schiavo for all I care, girlfriend. I will not be intervening.

OK, so I washed off the chocolate pudding from my foot but just kind of gingerly perched on the edge of the toilet seat, away from the puke splatters, to use the toilet before I went to bed. I was really tired from work and it took about two sentences of A Tale of Two Cities to send me into the land of Nod.

At 2:00am I woke up out of a dead sleep to hear the urgent ringing of the doorbell. I lurched out of bed and answered it in a crippling haze of sleepy confusion. When I opened the door, a total stranger burst in carrying my roommate, Latvian Horse Woman, in his arms. He confidently brushed past me and lay her down on the bed in her darkened room. She rolled off onto the floor immediately with a mighty equestrian thunk, and the dude picked her up again, looked at me, said, “I think she just hit her head, so tomorrow maybe she have, you know, something there,” in a French accent, and strode out of the apartment, leaving the LVH in 100% unconscious repose on her bed.

LVH’s bed is the one closest to and most readily visible from the front door, so I don’t think the random dude necessarily knew which one was hers. He must have gotten directions to our apartment from someone at whatever da fuck club they was at, because LVH was in no position to give them.

I was all business. Off with the Latvian Horse Woman’s shoes and jeans. Under the sheets with her sweaty horseflesh. Puke bucket next to pillow. Glass of water. Open window. Lolling body maneuvered into recovery position so I don’t have her death-by-aspiration on my conscience.

No sooner was I backing out of her room on my irritable way back to bed when…thunk. She was back on the floor with her head in the suitcase that’s been sitting, half-unpacked, on the floor ever since the day she arrived. Oh, and why did she never unpack her suitcase? Because her plane came late, and she was so eager to get to da club that she just changed clothes, dashed out the door, and arrived home, unconscious, six hours later, in the arms of two male models, “you-get-the-ankles-and-I’ll-get-the-wrists” style.

And now here she was again. Fuck it, guys, I just yanked her sheet from around her legs, tossed it over her body and left her on the floor. Twenty minutes later, I was still awake and stewing when she began to mewl, “Elyse? Elyse? Elyse?” I huffed back in there to find her in a half-sitting position, a remarkably solid glob of vomit on the floor next to her, and more all over her hair.

“Elyse, Elyse, you will stay with me? You will hep me? Oh god, I het myself. Oh, I hate, I hate! Oh, oh, god, I het modelink! You will hep me?”

FUCK.

I got fucking barf all over my hands tying her barf-soaked hair back into a ponytail. She puked all in the puke bucket, refused to puke when I bodily dragged her and aimed her barf jets right at the toilet (which WAS ALREADY COVERED IN SOMEONE ELSE’S BULIMIC PUDDING PURGE BARF, may I remind you) then started to heave again after she snuffled that she wanted to go back to bed.

All the time moaning, “I het myself, oh, I het myself!”

I wiped off her disgusting puke beard with warm water as she settled back into bed (I say this only to brag, because that was TOTALLY nice of me), and I lumbered back to my room at almost 4:00am.

On my way out this morning, I looked in her room. The other roommate hadn’t come home, and the Latvian Horse Woman was sprawled on the floor. A giant speech bubble of drying emesis was soaking into the carpet in the vicinity of her mouth. It looked like a deflated football. There is no profanity profane enough to express my feelings of disgust.

So, here I am at the internet cafe, writing this epic LJ entry, trying to delay returning home as long as I possibly can to increase the chances that the Latvian Horse Woman and the pudding-purger will have been present and conscious long enough to CLEAN UP THEIR FUCKING PUKE FROM OUR FUCKING SHARED LIVING SPACE.

I've been delaying going home for hours now, and have been haggardly weaving through the streets of Paris trying to shake off my horrible mood and wretched dislike of my fellowmodels. Having gazpacho didn't help. Neither did spending the afternoon flipping through French record stores, with their weird genre divisions (a whole separate section just for "Crooners"? And what the hell is "Cold Wave"?) Jesus. I'm doomed to spend the rest of the day with a black cloud hanging over my head, so if anybody else wants to splash vomit on me, now would be a good time to do it.

PS: But tomorrow I have a job on the coast of France near Normandy! According to the agency, the job is "Fashion Editorial of Little Coats." Ha! This country would have to be submerged under an ankle-deep lake of vomit before I would love it any less.
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