I’m Just Sayin’: I Should ALWAYS Trust My Gut Feelings

I knew there was an extremely good reason why I should have stayed home the other night or, for that matter, every night. Really, must I always be reminded of everyday life nonsense? I mean it’s not like I don’t do a good job on my own to confuse myself. I certainly don’t need the extra load of slapstick insanity courtesy of the others – you know those mortally annoying people who famously like to waste my time for absolutely no reason other than they can. This is the part where clearly I need to make a mental note to ALWAYS trust my gut feelings! Because had I listened to that little voice inside of me none of what I am about to tell you would have happened.

But Oh no, not moi! Instead I opted to listen to my overly unrealistically optimistic friend McKenzie brainwash my cynical Parisian ass with her overly positive enthusiasm and blind “out of proportion” faith in the goodness of human kind to foolishly lift the 2 years social embargo I had successfully declared on Los Angeles’ LGBT socialite scene.

“Mona, you need to put yourself out there. You have to go tonight to that gay and lesbian event. You never know whom you might meet,” she said with such gleeful excitement that the only things missing in the picture were the pom-poms and the rest of the cheerleading squad.

Of course, I know exactly whom I might meet! And much to my disgruntled horror, I of course met her! Actually to be politically correct, she found me. What I want to know is why of all the people attending that social LGBT mixer, the one most outstanding moron of the entire pack somehow finagled her way to me. What part of my usual unfriendly standoffish French demeanor was screaming “please come talk to me”? I thought I was oozing “unapproachable”? Not so much! At least not for Julie who monopolized my time for a solid twenty minutes to talk about, well, whatever she was talking about! Anywoo, all I know was that it would have dragged on interminably had I not brutally stepped on the brakes and brought the incredibly mind-numbing discourse to a screeching halt.

“I don’t mean to be rude (of course I did!) but I have to leave,” I said faking disappointment. “ I have another event to attend,” I lied a la “Hollywood style” to make myself look importantly important. Evidently all I had in mind was to hurry back home and resume my date with my couch.

We exchanged business cards and I quickly left the scene of the “about to be committed” crime. Because surely had I spent another second in her company, I would have (metaphorically speaking of course) strangled her.

Suffice it to say, the ordeal unfortunately did not end at that mixer. The very next day, Julie or as I endearingly like to call her “Miss Mosquito Mas” – as in the parasitic bug clinging on my skin and sucking the blood out of me – sent me an uber formal email to inform me that not only did she enjoy meeting me but would like the opportunity to “meet up” again to discuss a variety of topics which she proceeded to meticulously enumerate and highlight in bold blue capital letters (and she deemed that necessary because?).

Right there, my rebellious, rambunctious personality somehow couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if I were to accept this new rendezvous solicitation and defiantly challenge her by engaging in a topic of conversation outside of the outline she provided me with. And just for that – to sooth my burning curiosity and “esprit de contradiction” – I accepted her proposition.

So a week later we met at some popular coffee joint in West Hollywood, which I had conveniently, and yes very selfishly, selected. Clearly, if Julie was dictating the content of our meeting, then, I would then take charge of the location. Because my 90028 lazy Hollywood bootie was not about to drive to the 90210 West side – that was too much work for something highly anticipated to absolutely not be worth one single minute of my time. That’s right! I have psychic powers and they’re called “good judge of character!”

Cut to the fateful day. My obsession with punctuality, excessive anxiety about schedules, and other practical concerns part of my prolific list of phobias, evidently made me arrive 15 minutes before our scheduled tête-à-tête. Meanwhile, she made her unfabulous entrance 2 minutes past the hour, meaning she was fashionably late – and I know that for keeping track of time with military precision because I secretly wanted her to be tardy to have a valid excuse for a first strike against her.

What enfolded can only be described as indescribable; or as my friend Patty says a “you can’t make this shit up” priceless Kodak moment. To say that she displayed some spectacularly abnormal aptitudes in the “deeply dysfunctional wreck of a human being” department is to put it mildly.

The minute she sat her ass down she never EVER shut up – not even once paused for a second to catch her fucking breath. It would have been OK had the conversation -or rather monologue – been remotely interesting, but it was an overwhelming massive explosive diarrhea of words. All I was hearing was blah blah blah blah and blah – a non-stop vomiting session of colossal crap. I was utterly speechless and not just because I was flabbergasted by the increbibly inhuman elasticity of her madness but mainly because she was on such a psycho-maniac verbal rampage that I couldn’t place a single word. And God knows I desperately tried but she kept interrupting me! Personally, I have one word for that kind of behavior: RUDE!

All I could think about was: What about me? I’m a good topic of conversation! I could tell her how self-centered, boringly annoying and utterly obnoxious I think she is. We could even talk about how right about now I am contemplating suicide, or perhaps I could share with her how hearing her yap away is as torturous as fingernails on a chalkboard.

And wait t’il you hear this – because of course it got better (or was it worse?) So right at the commencement her tirade, she handed me another one of her business cards. Please note that this would be a different card than the one I was handed at the mixer. Because apparently she has a business card for each and every one of her personalities – meaning each one of her wishful imaginary professional careers she seems to accumulate as often as I change underwear, which, if you must know, is daily. Thus far, I got the “producer” and the “ life coaching” ones – hmm I wonder if there’re collectible items of any Ebay financial value? NOT! Seriously! Who the fuck does that?

Anyway, all I know was that a week ago the woman I met was producing some documentary on athletes running marathons (yawn!) and now I was meeting a woman who somehow in 7 days not only morphed into a professional drug addiction expert/life coach but also managed to become BFF with a slew of A-list celebrities famed for having successfully battled their substance abuse problems and overcome their personal demons. Of course, said Celebs were now ‘allegedly’ begging her to not only life coach them but also shoot a reality TV show based on their victorious recovery. And by A-list celebrities, while I won’t name names, all I can say is that she was talking about Iron Man, Freaky Friday and Hannibal – if you know whom I mean!

The first thought that came to my mind was “AS IF!” which, as expected, was proven to be right when the very next sentence she spewed in the very same breath following her nauseating name-dropping big fat delusional lie was the anticipated question: “as an entertainment publicist, can you help me get those people on camera?” And yes I unhesitatingly offered a NO. C’mon! How much more transparent could she have been? Even Ray Charles would have seen this one coming. It was textbook Hollywood modus operandi – as in what can your job and connections do for me and for free?

Obviously she had no idea who she was dealing with! For God’s sake, I was certainly wasn’t born yesterday! Not only that, but who the fuck does she think she is lecturing MOI – a once upon a time professional junkie – on drug addictions? Don’t you think it would behoove her to know her audience before opening her dumb ass mouth?

She pissed me off so badly that at that point, having reached apocalyptic anger, I decided to be as obnoxious and harassingly abusive to her as she was to me. Sporting my glamorous total jerk attire, I then proceeded to chain-smoke releasing the fumes directly in her face, and I belligerently amused myself at discrediting every point she was attempting to make.

For instance, when she said she started a social networking group for professional lesbians and would love for me to join, I took immense pleasure in letting her know that the only club I would ever joined (and have) was my gym. I also declared while fixing her with a lethal stare, that I absolutely don’t fancy meeting new people and that I profoundly detest going out to social outings, especially the “all-Lesbians” attended ones. I even told her that my being at the mixer was an unfortunate mistake and that actually it never really happened because it wasn’t me who was there; it was my other personality. In fact had she given me time to search in my wallet I would have even found a business card for her!

But clearly she wasn’t interested in hearing any of it! And I was having none of it – except a colossal overdose courtesy of her toxic bullshit. Frankly, the excruciating pain I suffered after these absurdly torturous sixty minutes wasted in her company was so intense that it made me want to go smoke crack. Hell is a place on earth and it’s called JULIE! Unsurprisingly, albeit comically, the very next day I received another electronic missive from her telling me how nice it had been to meet me, and how she hoped to see me again. Seriously, was she at the same meeting as I? What part of my body language didn’t say GET A FREAKING LIFE as far away from mine as possible? Maybe I need some new business cards? I’m just sayin’!