Tame Me

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That, I think, was one hell of a party.

I am standing with my back to the Pacific as I watch the efficient crew break down the lovely white tents. The leftover food has already been packed away. The trash has been discarded. The band left hours ago, and the last of the guests have already departed.

Even the paparazzi who had camped out on the beach hoping to snag a few choice pictures of my best friend Nikki Fairchild’s wedding to multi-bazillionaire and former tennis star Damien Stark are long gone.

I sigh and tell myself that this vague emptiness I’m feeling isn’t melancholy. Instead, it’s an aftereffect of staying up all night drinking and partying. I am, of course, lying. I’m melancholy as shit, but I figure that’s normal. After all, I’ve just watched my best friend get married to the one man in the entire universe who is absolutely, positively perfect for her. Great news, and I’m really and truly happy for her, but she found him without trolling through the entire male population of Los Angeles.

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