What You Don't Know About Fertility.. Hey Girl, I'm Bill Clinton.. #StayWell Wishes For Judy Blume
I was crawling on my hands and knees on a filthy concrete dressing room floor in Tijuana, Mexico. This was not a scene from Papillon; this was me after a gig. It was 1993. My band, Zuzu's Petals, had just completed the most embarrassing blind-drunk set of our careers, and I was worried that we'd be kicked off our fabulous one-month, high-profile tour -- opening for the dreamy new-wave swashbuckler Adam Ant -- because I was behaving so unprofessionally. Zuzu's Petals' stock was finally rising, thanks to our well-received first album. With more people in the crowd, I felt more responsibility to put on a decent show and not be sh*tfaced. Broken glass embedded itself in my palms and kneecaps as I dragged myself to the toilet, which sat bare and open in the dressing room. After I'd heaved a day's worth of tequila shots from Señor Toad's out of my system, I attempted to steady myself on my feet by leaning against a cinder-block wall. My forehead was sweaty, and there was a fresh tear around the armhole of my lacy, off-white vintage first-communion dress. The pink satin bow marking the center of my Peter Pan collar was untied. BLOG POSTS
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