the rundown (minus stifler and the rock)

and now in the milky light of monday morning, i've pulled the cotton wool out of my head long enough to finally reveal the truth of the deb ball to the assembled company. first: as far as i'm concern, the party was the stuff of legend. or perhaps not, but certainly it was charming enough to warrant its consideration as an annual event. the punch drained quickly and the company mingled properly (for the most part), and most everyone looked absolutely fabulous. we had a pair of gentlemen in dueling fedoras, as well as a pair in chain mail and mesh. the ladies swooped around in acres of pink and white and silk and glitter and stockings. one of our number made his requisite scene, taking a swing at the roos in the presence of his new boyfriend (needless to say, as a result of that, we have not made a terribly favorable impression upon the new beau; that is my lone regret of the shindig) and then passing out on the couch; somewhere in the middle of that he attempted to stick his tongue down my throat while standing about four feet away from the boy. apparently, i'm not the only one he tried this with. ah well. at least we know he has consistently good taste. the party coasted to a halt somewhere in the three o'clock hour, by which time i'd mixed my poisons so thoroughly that the world was spinning and i had to remove my contact lenses. by the time i crawled into bed, i was more or less unaware of myself. apparently, i whuffled gibberish into the ear of the boy before passing out, pleased as punch with a job well done.