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THE REAL DANGERS OF GOSSIP GIRL

Living in Los Angeles, obviously I know that the things that happen on my television are not real. But, last week, I wasn’t in Los Angeles. I was in New York. New York. The big, bad city that’s so larger-than-life that, sometimes, you might feel like you’re on the set of a movie. Or a TV show. Or, in my case in particular, Gossip Girl. The night began on the lower east side. My recently-acquired male companion was wearing Lacoste. I could tell he was rich in the same way he could tell I wasn’t, and was convinced that behind his causal demeanor lurked a history of money-laundering scandal and middle-aged mistresses. Chuck (no joke, Chuck!!!) was a Yale and Stuyvesant alum and when he invited me back to his parents’ place (no joke, his parents’ place!!!), I decided to throw caution to the wind and see what adventures awaited in the scandalous lives of Manhattan’s elite. Ten minutes into the smelly cab ride, cruising through the Upper East Side, the sober part of me (small as it may have been) realized that something was amiss. The first clue was the cab itself. It was not a limo or a town car or even a helicopter. It was a cab.

Suddenly, the lighting was all wrong. Chuck had a zit on his chin, rough cuticles and to make things even worse, I wasn’t remotely attracted to him. With no commercial break in sight, I clenched my knees together until we tumbled out of the cab onto a empty city street. The location was right, but the story was all wrong. The doorman didn’t even know Chuck’s name and made no charming comment about the fact that he was bringing home yet another young lady. In fact, he called him Stewart. Weird. Up in the plush apartment, I was frantic. Running out of time, I pulled the trick that many women know, but never talk about. The one that is only reserved for those moments when you figure that you’ve already sunken so low that, at this point, hitting rock bottom isn’t going to hurt. “Argggggg. Arrggggg.” I moaned from the bathroom, flushing the toilet sporadically. My heels hurt. A few finger-gags later, I’d produced a legitimate vom. “I (splash splash) drank too much,” I whined. I filled a cup with water and poured it in the toilet. “Ohhhh nooooo…”

“Drunk ho...” I heard him murmur outside the bathroom door. UpChuck yours, non-Gossip-Girl-character. My dignity gone (but my Friday-night-virginity in tact!) I emerged from the bathroom and headed back to Brooklyn. I will be expensing my $57 cab ride to the media. Thanks. xoxo, ML

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