The Way To My Heart Is Through My Loft

Having a bunch of new people over to my doghouse reminds me how much I love people complimenting it. I'm thinking of having a party every week now but never with the same people. But being as anti-talking to stupid people as I am, I don't have a supply of party goers available in my Rolodex. Do they have wholesale warehouses for these sorts of things? Like a CostCo for acquaintances? I think I'll have to take an ad out in the paper. "Are you highly complimentary? Do you enjoy parties? Does the idea of spending Saturday night at a tranny stranger's house excite you? If you answered yes to any of these questions then make sure it was the first question and come on down to Amelia Papaya's Weekly Loft Tour Jamboree! We'll have food, fun, and a home so amazing you'll be held at gunpoint till you say, 'Wow, I really like your place, Amelia.'"

It's strange, really. Other compliments I get (and let me tell you, there are a number of them!) are nice or whatever but my absolute favorite is always when people compliment my home. They can rave all day about my shiny coat, my spectacular humping, my puppy-like exuberance for life, my ability to be wholly unimpressed with you, my love of lists, my third grade report card, anything really and all I want to say is, "Yes, but what about my loft? Let's get to the real issue here." Perhaps because, with the exception of the drug habit that supports my puppy-like exuberance, nothing else cost me this much fucking money. Or perhaps because it is physical, literally concrete proof that I'm better than you.

So next Saturday night my place? Bring a friend but no fatties or repeat guests. ... well, okay, fatties can come but they have to compliment twice.