Last night I dragged my tired, broke ass to the Red Earth Trading Co. closing party. I was really happy that I didn't see / have to talk to anyone I don't enjoy, which is a really, really, really rare thing in Nashville. My expectations for going outside of my house usually require a small dosage of an anti-anxiety medication, and my recovery requires several weeks of being a drunk recluse afterwards.

Sammie and I dressed identically. Unintentionally.

A precious little gay guy went out of his way to compliment me on my Chloe ripoffs. He didn't know what Chloe meant, so I immediately questioned the authenticity of his sexuality, which is so presumptuous and everything I hate about gender/sexuality stereotypes, but I have a point, you know?  His friend knew what I was talking about, and told me "You get vintage. I can tell." Wow, what a compliment, you know? And after that, he asked where I got them, and I just stammered, "I... can't tell you."

Huh? What? Who says that?! I was thrown off because 1) I am a lady, clearly, and 2) Why would you want to buy lady boots? Are you asking for a female friend? Why do you care? What does it matter where I got them? Like... think about it for a minute! I probably either got them at the mall or on the Internet! And... WHY? Where did you get your bolo tie, you know? I don't give a shit where you got your clothes! We don't wear the same stuff! If you were a girl, I'd probably tell you I got them on the Internet. But... right? Can we at least agree that it was a totally bizarre question for a man to ask a woman?

Lindsay told me I was being rude and then the boys walked away. I spent the rest of the night trapped in my brain with my self-deprecation because, great, two people who were nice to me probably think I'm a bitch.

And then I'm all, you know what? GOOD.

Because everyone needs to fear me.

It was like that movie Crash.