“If Mischa Barton’s fat ex boyfriend ever offers you coke, don’t do it, because it’s probably ecstasy,” says a guy with a house above the Louis Vuitton store on Greene Street. “He did that to me and my friends once, and I was like, dude, that’s so dangerous! He told me it’s because he didn’t want me to leave the party. What an asshole.”
I am torn among three options:
1. Telling him I would never, ever stand within five feet of the Ick Fest that is Mischa Barton’s fat ex boyfriend.
2. Telling him I would never, ever do coke.
3. Telling him that snorting E doesn’t really sound more dangerous than snorting coke, because both are drugs that you’re whiffing into your brain, hello.
Instead I calculate silently how many bags of coke would buy this guy’s house.
The number I come up with is lower than the number of velvet ropes cut by Mischa Barton.
But only slightly.
[AMY WINEHOUSE - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Conversations like this serve as a prudent reminder to always keep your “quick release” skills sharp, lest you be bombarded with “tips” about some C-list lothario. Please.