#6 Grace- The Pact

 So no sooner than Rebecca had uttered that last sentence, comes a gigantic CRASH and my front door collapsing to the floor, along with some stray plastering.

Through what was once my door and is now a hole in a wall came a flurry of limbs and blonde hair in the form of Anya.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU HUH? COME OUT YOU LITTLE MAGGOT, IM GONNA KNOCK YOU INTO NEXT YEAR. NO ONE CHEATS ON MY BEST FRIEND AND-"

"Anya!" I say patiently, watching her fly past us into my bedroom.

"HIDING ARE WE? THAT'S OK, MAKES IT MORE FUN FOR WHEN I FIND YOU AND POUND YOU"

"Anya." She storms into the kitchen and throws a wine glass against my wall.

"I'M GETTING PISSED OFF NOW BENNY WENNY, COME OUT HERE-"

"ANYA"

"What." She looks at me, gasping for breath, having clearly just sprinted the speed of a cheeter up 13 floors of stairs.

"He's not here."

She pauses, breathing heavily, and looks at the four of us sat sheepishly on my sofas. Rebecca tuts knowingly, and the others stare, mouths to their vaginas.

"Anya... " Eva says in a bewildered tone, "I think you just broke down Grace's door"

Rebecca scoffs, "Good effort, even for you"

Anya ignores this and having regained her breath walks slowly over to me and kneels on the floor in front of me. Her eyes are bloodshot so she's clearly wasted, or tripping out (I never can tell what she's on these days) and I notice the slight formation of a blueish bruise spreading slowly across her right cheekbone to her under-eye. She puts her hands on my knees, and resting her body weight on me she looks up.

"Gracie, I'm so sorry. I'll pay for it. I was just so mad at that little weasel", she's slurring, "I, you know, you're just, my best fffriend and I won't let anyone do that to you because you're my best friend you know"

I cut her off, "Anya it's fine", and it really is, that door was long needing replacement anyway, "what the fuck happened to you? Where have you been? And why have you got a black eye?"

The girls crane round to check this out.

"Shit Anya! Did you fight someone again?" Eva asks her, rushing over and wiping her booze-soaked hair out of her face so she can look at the bruise.

"I'll get ice" Yasmin walks off, rational as ever.

Rebecca remains seated and uninterested, "She probably lamped a barman again".

Anya glares at her, "Hey. See what I did to that door bitch?" She starts to get up but I tug her back down and grab her hands. Yasmin brings over the pack of Birds Eye peas and tries to press it against Anya who flinches and pushes her away

"Look thanks but I'm fine," she gets up and sits close to me on the sofa, her breath reeks of gin and I notice that her cheeks are also stained with mascara, matching mine, "That bitch at Lenny's threw a beer glass at me, got my face didn't she. Cunt"

Rebecca shudders at the c-word.

"Anyway," she ruffles her stringy dirty blonde hair and grabs my hand again, "Gracie, I'm so sorry about Ben, are you okay?" she asks with a frankness that I recognise instantly in her and have done since we were 11 years old.

"It sucks," I could feel fresh tears coming back (it's AMAZING how much you can cry in a day), "I hate him and I'm never leaving the flat again"

Anya throws her arms around me in a bear hug and then settles into laying her head in my lap and cradling my leg. Yasmin sits on my other side and says firmly, "Look, she may be smashed but she's right, the jerkoff can't get away with that"

Rebecca looks bored, "Well beating him senseless isn't the answer"

I feel a heavy, fresh wave of sorrow through me again, and my heart starts to ache with every beat; the thought of physically hurting him pleases and then distresses me simultaneously. I use the little energy left in my body to sigh and rest my head on Yasmin.

"I just want him to feel what I'm feeling right now."

#5 Anya

 Can't walk straight.

Eye swollen and tears streaming.

Stumbled into a young couple and scared the girl. I think she thinks I'm a beggar or an addict or something.

I don't recognise where the fuck I am but I must be near Grace's as the taxi driver took me here and only chucked me out early as he clocked that I have no cash.

STOP CRYING.

I smack myself round the face to liven myself up a bit. My brain is a merry-go-round fueled by gin, and more gin, and maybe tequila, and not cocaine for once.

I fucking hate him for ever making me do drugs. It made my heart palpitations so much worse, and I know my brother Joe hated me a bit more every time he saw me on it. And Gracie for that matter; I hate it when I let people down.

So I made a pact and tried to get clean tonight and get rid of him.

Harley Hunter.

Harley fucking Hunter.

Met him at 20, he was a drummer and his band used to play at Lenny's - my occasional choice of workplace. I felt him staring at me throughout his first set there, and I couldn't possibly count how many glasses I dropped that night under the pressure of his gaze; I was possessed. His head was lowered so his messy hair covered his eyes, but whenever he'd get really into the drumming his hair would swish back and his eyes would be fixated on mine, imploring me to look back; he was the nearest thing to Kurt Cobain I've ever and probably will ever see.

Too bad he's insane.

The first year was a whirlwind of sex and weed and more sex and I couldn't bear to leave his bed and so he told me I didn't need to and we moved in together. That's about when shit got real.

It started when I would come back from Lenny's late and he would ask where I'd been and if I was shagging Danny, my manager, and I'd tell him fuck off Harley you know he's gay but secretly wished I had been out shagging Danny because he's gorgeous and then Harley would sulk and start drumming furiously on the coffee table with the remote control and once I tried to grab it off him to stop it because you'll fucking break it and that was the first time he hit me.

Sharp and short backhand to the cheek.

He cried and promised it would never happen again and can we just have a spliff and forget it? so I would and he would and we would go to bed and it would be okay again for a few weeks. But like all sadists, he got a hit out of hitting and it became more frequent.
It would never be more than one blow to the face or body, or one push- enough to temporarily wind me but never more- so it was always easy to lie and hide it from people, not that I ever see people in the day time anyway but that's not the point.

The girls hated him anyway; Grace in particular. I don't blame them. He was rude; he would grunt answers to questions they asked him, and if he wasn't falling asleep he would be trying to kiss my neck whilst I was talking to them and I'd bat him off me and that would make him throw me a round a little bit later on. Not that I should be so lighthearted about physical abuse, but it never really hurt that much, and the initial shock went away after it became more frequent, and I'm not a masochist or anything but I figured if it didn't hurt that much I should just deal with it and let him hate himself a bit more every time.

Why didn't I just leave him then? Well that's easy. I was obsessed with him. I get obsessed with everyone. That's probably why I haven't had a serious functional relationship; I get bored after one shag if there's no passion, and if there is, well then it ignites something inside me that turns me a little bit insane, far too intense to have a proper relationship but just enough to keep me hanging on until it burns out.

With Harley it didn't burn out until last week; I can't pinpoint how or why but it just did. I woke up one morning after too much coke with his arms wrapped round my waist tightly, so securely that I didn't have a chance of squirming out, and so I just lay there for hours planning on how I was going to finally leave him.

And that leads us to tonight; one swollen cheek, the formation of a black eye and a broken rib later.

I had packed all my stuff, ie. a guns n roses t-shirt and a toothbrush, and left a letter on the bed (god knows I wasn't gonna dump his crazy ass in person). I had just got a text from Gracie asking me to stay over after finding her cunt of a boyfriend in bed with another girl, and I felt inspired to get out of this cesspit of a relationship once and for all. I told her I was coming over IMMEDIATELY and considered the best way to impart physical pain upon that douchebag Ben, who I'm almost certain touched me up at Grace's 23rd, and decided upon a fist to the testicular region; something I haven't had the pleasure of experiencing yet but that I'm sure would induce girl tears. Anyway, so I pour myself a few g&ts for dutch courage, as breaking up with a womanbeater and planning a man-beating all in one night is a little too much for sober Anya to handle.

So I'm knocking back my 4th when the door swings open and Harley stumbles in, out of his mind on ket or some other dirty drug I'm too scared to try, and he knows something is wrong straight up when he sees my overnight bag. I tense up a bit, I'm drunk but I'm ready for what's to come, and you know what, come and get me.

He walks towards me menacingly

Where the fuck are you going?

I answer stoicly, Grace's- I'm not coming back by the way.

He tries to hug me and cries into my shoulder, and mutters my name and tells me I'm all he lives for, and if I wasn't used to two years of this I'd probably cry too but I push him off me and make for the door. Needless to say that didn't go down to plan.

So here I am now, and I'm definitely lost on Grace's street that I've been to 200 hundred times, but I had to buy another bottle before I got here to calm my nerves. I've had worse injuries but this time I actually fought back, and it scared him. I caught his temple with my ring and drew blood and he let his grip on me loosen in shock and that's when I bolted through the door, and down the stairs, and across roads I'd never seen- even though I knew he wouldn't be following me.

And after begging a taxi to take me across London I think I may be outside Grace's door.

Fucking hell, if that bitch Becca is there already I might have to throw myself down Grace's 13 floors of stairs.

#4 Rebecca

 God I fucking hate the sodding, stinking Tube.

 You're thrust into an armpit and some cheeky teenager always manages to be standing crotch to my ass with no viable way of dodging to that one free seat in the middle of the carriage, and not to mention the awkwardness of accidentally catching someone's eye and then quickly looking down to recover but you're actually now staring at their crotch-

Never again.

I only hopped on because I couldn't call Addison Lee quick enough to get to Grace's apartment, and I completely underestimated the time it takes to get to her grotty crack den of a flat, and that 15 minute walk in the pitch black, and in high heels. Fuck it. Money may be tight, but I'm getting a cab from the station to hers.

Ohw I just WISH I was rich. There were the cutest leopard ponyskin heels in the window of KG I walked past earlier, and I just know I'd be less devastated about William breaking up with me for that god awful sloany redhead from Bristol, Clemmie something or other, if I had them on and around my feet. I had a revelation today, two weeks after furiously beating myself up asking why he ended such a perfect relationship with such great potential; I know its because Clemmie has a signet ring and I don't.

That's why he's taking her to his family's ski chalet in Chamonix, because she is rich and has a triple-barrelled surname, along with a definite distant relation to the Royal Family.

I'm not jealous though. Not at all. Sure, she might be loaded and posh, but does she have ambition, intelligence, grace and poise all wrapped up in a sexy size 8 frame?

Well, she's definitely got love-handles so that rules out the last one.

I'm not returning the necklace he bought me though, nu uh no way no how. If that cheeky swine thinks he can break up with Rebecca Spencer-Mills and get away with it he has another thing coming to him.

Oh fuck I've walked past Grace's house. Sorry I didn't mean house. I meant jazzed-up dungeon.

Double fuck, the """lift""" doesn't work. And I don't wear flats.

qwertyuiuygfdcvbhjklmnhg^%$£$%^&*()(*&^%$£%^&*(fghjkjhgfdcvghjkjhgfcvbhnjmklopoijbgvcxcvbnhgfghjkjhgfbjkkj%^&*&^%^&*(grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

I guess they heard my sighs of exhaustion from the bottom floor as Eva, Yaz and Grace are standing in the doorway before I even have a chance to knock. I make a shoddy job of hiding how shocked I am at the state of Grace.

"I know I know.. I look like death"

I shake my head overenthusiastically and stretch my mouth into the best forced smile I can muster.

"Hun you look fiiiine!"

It sounds kinda weird and high-pitched when I say it and I'm clearly not fooling anyone.

"I forgot you still had those pyjamas" I say, still force-smiling.  She should really burn those pjs, in fact, if I can get her dressed normally ever again I'll burn them.

"Oh these?... Well get used to them because I'm not changing ever again. What's the point of dressing up, I have no one to look nice for"

I gasp silently. This is worse than I thought

"Nonsense silly. Now come on, let's sit down and make a list of reasons why you're far better off without that swine" I lead her by the arm on to her gross mouldy grey sofa, "Hi girls how are we?" I ask smiling.

I've known the girls for about 3 years now but it doesn't make it any easier integrating into the wolfpack. I still feel I have to make up for not having been a childhood friend or a work buddy, especially when it comes with Anya sodding Lusher.

Grace won't see that that girl is just trouble, and she always will be; bailing her out every other day whether it be money loans, a bed for the night or just making sure she's got her bloody knickers on. And wasn't her dad a famous rock star in the 70s or something? How does she not have money? Probably blew it on cocaine or something.

Okay. That was catty of me; my therapist told me to concentrate negative thoughts towards positive ones.

Ugh, I just can't. All I can think about is how she almost broke William and I up at graduation, and that I cannot forgive.

"So... is it just the four of us then?" I ask optimistically.

#3 Eva

 ¡qué horror de día!

I guess I was prepared though. When I read my horoscope this morning, it said:

"Distressing as it may be for you to accept that an error has occurred, and that a force far greater than your own are at work..  Though you might have preferred a less drastic way for the cosmos to push you in another direction, what may be clear to you now, is that there are certain items and people you treasure greatly and that care of these is your number one priority"

Yeah I know damn well what that "error" is. Kids, let me tell you. Don't trust a man who will only take you out at night, and don't trust a man who won't let you back to his apartment, and DON'T trust a man who uses two mobile phones.

I guess that should probably go hand in hand with me warning you off dating your uni lecturer too.

It's too bad Dr. Stewart is so damn sexy, in that silver fox kind of way of course, but boy could that papito hold out in the bedroom. I guess I fell for him because he was charming, and sophisticated, and had that kind of smouldering sexuality radiating through his eyes that would send tingles through my loins when he looked my way. All the boys my age are immature pricks anyway; it's all chunder this and banter that and ketamine and jagerbombs and dubstep and warehouse parties - not for me gracias.

Besides, one of those lousy assholes found out about my job at the strip club and ever since I've had people from my course, or old friends from halls asking if they can hire me for their friend's 21st or worse, asking if I charge a discount rate for a blozza.

I can't wait til this final year is over with, and up until today the only thing that had kept me motivated to carry on with my nursing degree is Dr. Stewart, aka. Dr. Greatdick. It began around 4 months ago, after I had stayed behind after a seminar one evening to ask him for help with my Exploring Psychology assignment; let's just say that wasn't all we got to exploring.. ;)

He made it seem acceptable to be hooking up with your professor; he never locked his door when we hooked up, and winked at me openly in lectures, I think one time he maybe even hit my ass in front of a group of students. He was so confident that we wouldn't get found out that we even met up in the evenings; fair enough it was often in dark seedy bars where we would just drink brandy and fuck in the toilets (not pleasant FYI), but I really thought he was serious about being with me.

He would tell me

"Eva, you're my beautiful little senorita, you aren't like the other kids, you have a heart bursting with love and passion, when people are around you they feel your aura, your inner erotic energy, it would be a crime if we didn't make love on this operating table right now"

But I suppose looking back on it, we didn't do a whole lot of talking, we had a lot of sex though; sex in the lecture halls, sex in the surgery, sex in the campus toilets, you name it - we did it. Dr. Stew gave me my first orgasm as a 22-year-old woman, and my second, and my third and, well you get it. I guess I should have probably questioned why a 42 -year-old would be interested in a student two decades his junior, but I can be incredibly naive when it comes to men and being taken advantage of; because that's what it was, I was seduced and coerced into a 4-month sexual liason.

I started getting suspicious about 2 weeks ago when he pushed my head under the table in a bar we were at because he "thought" he saw a co-ed walk past, and then when I realised that he only called me on his Blackberry and not his iPhone, I knew he was hiding something. So this morning when we woke up at a Holiday Inn (he's on a teacher's salary okay?) he went to shower, and whilst he occupied himself in the bathroom, I occupied myself with rifling through his jacket pockets and wallets. Ta-daaaaaaaa - ladies and gentleman we have ourselves a MWC (married with children).

His wallet had photos of his two children in, two little girls, and a photo of his wife, who, though was at least ten years my senior, looked beautiful and very well kept. I heard the fawcet turn on and knew Dr. Stew would be in there for at least 15 minutes, so I went through his iPhone. He had a passcode on it but I had seen him enter it over his shoulder so I typed in 1412 and had a thorough snoop through everything I could find.

"Debbie" his wife, left him sweet texts like any normal wife would do:

"Made your lasagne today. Try and get home early so we can eat with the kids, love you darling X"

and so forth.

The girls looked about 12-14 from their pictures, the same age I was when I found out my papa cheated on my mother.

I got real mad waiting for him to come out, I debated storming in to the bathroom and hurling his mobile at him whilst screaming spanish expletives, but instead I yelled that I was going to be late for class so I had to run, put his phone back in his jacket pocket, and left the hotel cursing myself for being so guileless.

I phoned up Manuel at the club and told him I wouldn't be coming in tonight

"Ahh Eva, you're my best girl, what am I gonna do without you here? I don't have anyone to fill in for you, you know you'll be in trouble if you just-"

I knew I wasn't going to be in any trouble, Manuel would never fire me, I had the best natural tits in the club and had the most regulars out of all the girls. I'm the best stripper he has. Besides, I need to get drunk and Grace called sounding real down about that asshole boyfriend of hers, so I'm on my way to her place asap.

Damn I hope they've broken up cos I was starting to find it real hard being in the same room with that jerkoff after he tried to feel me up at Grace's 23rd.

I'm also pretty sure I saw him leaving the house of that swedish bar tender last week, Astrid or Ingrid or something..

Pendejo.

#2 Yasmin

Today, has been a bad day.

Firstly, the new intern Francesca is absolutely useless; and when I say useless I mean I am wholly offended that the Chic Fashion Editor hired her over the hundreds of girls that applied, the hundreds of girls that would have murdered their own mothers with their own stillettos to work for one of the fastest growing women's magazines in the UK.

And of course, "Frankie" was assisting me today on one of the biggest shoots I've ever had to organise, styling the beautiful Thandie Newton for a Winter Wonderland themed story. By "helping me organise" I mean that instead, Frankie asked for Thandie's autograph mid-shoot, brought the wrong shoot's wardrobe and spent 2/3 of the afternoon on her phone to "Seffy" because

"babe, she just saw Mischa Barton walking down the Kings Road, you know who she is don't you?".

So after royally pissing poor Thandie off, and ensuring that she will never ever, ever ever, reshoot for Chic again, I check my phone after leaving it for 3 hours.

4 new voicemails.

"Yazzy, baby it's Stefan. I know you're busy but try and call me back. Need to know what the plan is this evening? Your place or mine? Call me angel."

"Yaz, forgot, I'm just about to hop on the tube. Give it 20 before you call"

"Hey, again, just me, you know, your boyfriend. Surely you get a lunch break or something? Really need to know when you get off tonight, I know you said you'll be shooting late but give me an ETA please beautiful"

"Yasmin, forget tonight. I'm going out with the boys. Maybe call me when you have time in your schedule for your boyfriend."

Oh boy. Here we go again. How is it that I work all damn day, most nights, I never go out so I could never cheat and still my oversensitive boyfriend can find a way to make me feel like Ashley crapping Cole every time I don't answer the phone.

I've been saying I'm going to break up with Stefan every day, and sometimes twice a day, for approximately 3 months now. I can't pinpoint a solid reason why I should break up with a smart, considerate man, who also I'd like to point out, is on the brink of becoming a world famous supermodel, but I think it has something to do with the fact that he cried at Glee last week.

So I broke up with him today. I think it went well. I mean, he cried, again, and wouldn't let go of my hand when I told him I had to rush to Grace's house as an emergency, but after following me about a mile screaming "fine,fuckyouFUCKYOUYOUFUCKINGSLUT", he let me ascend on to the Tube to get to my Gracie in North London.

After this mildly traumatising ordeal, obviously the evening was only to get better as I made the 15 minute walk I knew oh so well to get to Grace's. The streets are all unlit, and after witnessing what looked like a thwarted drug deal, I was aware I was being followed. I took a left and entered a cul-de-sac, strolling toward a streetlight for what little protection it allowed, reached into my purse for my pepper spray (I stocked up on a recent visit to South Africa), turned round and shouted

"I KNOW BRAZILIAN JIU-JITSU ASSHOLE SO IF YOU'RE GONNA MUG ME THEN GO AHEAD, TRY YOUR FUCKING HARDEST"

Turns out it was Stefan. And he had followed me half way to Grace's. After threatening to drop kick him in the balls and call the police he sobbed that he thought "we were forever" and skulked away round a dark corner.

Finally, after an exhausting Friday, I arrive at Gracie's door. It's a shit apartment. The reception door to the block practically hangs off its hinges and Grace would also be on the 13th floor of a block of flats that has no working lift, but I can't help but smile at my poor sweet friend as she answers the door in those wretched penguin pyjamas that I thought she had given to Oxfam before uni. Her pretty little pink cheeks were stained with mascara, her normally sparkly green eyes looked sad and wide like a hungry bush baby and her glossy chestnut mane was fashioned into some wild new variation of a chignon; the very picture of self-pity.

As I hug the shit out of my sad little penguin friend, I hear wheezing from the staircase that could only belong to someone with tired little legs from sprinting up 13 floors.

Grace laughs through her fresh tears, "I guess Eva's here".

#1 Grace

Ever had your heart broken?

Sucks. Doesn't it.

And why is it always girls? Answer me that would you. Tell me please why you never see a guy with puffy bloodshot red eyes and a half-eaten tub of BJs (Ben&Jerrys duh) lying face down on their carpet with The Notebook playing on DVD in the background.

Because as a woman, we are genetically programmed to be more emotionally in tune, more romantic, empathetic and equally hysterical than men; we are encouraged to be led by our hearts, and brought up to believe that a successful fairytale marriage is the pinacle of our exisitance on earth.

Well fuck you Rachel McAdams.

My name is Grace Griffiths , I am a 23-year-old agony aunt columnist for Chic - a fashion and lifestyle magazine for the 21st century girl... right.

I'm attractive, I have a fantastic bum and I have a Double Honours First in English Literature; the world should be my oyster at this age, correct? Not correct.

Just this morning my comfortable little life as I knew it came crashing down upon me as I discovered my boyfriend of 3 years inside the hot swedish blonde girl that works in the bar round the corner from his place.

I'd like to paint a picture for you if I may-

I feel elated, its a Friday morning, I have a day off work and I've just been told via phonecall that I'm getting a raise from Michelle, my boss, aka. Satan's sister. I punch the air, Ninja Turtles Style! I grab the flu meds I've just bought from Boots and throw them in my handbag, I run out the door, and then run back in. I tear my dress and my fleshie pants off and carefully slip into the silky red teddy I've also just purchased. I throw back on a huge fur (faux) coat and wink at myself as I sprint out of the door to my boyfriend's house.

Gosh, I am such a good girlfriend. I congratulate myself on being so thoughtful as to buy medicine for my poor Benny sick in bed, and try and picture how turned on he's going to be when he sees what's underneath my fur.

It's only 11am and whilst I hate morning sex, I know he's been bedridden for two days and must be so lonely and horny that I suck it up and  get ready to give him the best sex of his life, maybe even doggy style which I hate.

I walk a little too briskly for a February morning and slip, ass first, just outside his house. I sit there for a while, the melted snow slush mud puddle seeps through my new silky lingerie and gives me buttock chills, I fight back the tears in my eyes that I always get when I fall over, a couple of teenagers laugh and shout "She fell oooooovver" which is very original so well done kids, I slowly pick myself up, nod and make a thumbs up to the postman who yelled "Alwight sweetheart?", and I knock on Ben's door slowly, and lacklustrely; wiping the dirt water off my ass and kicking the tampons that fell out of my bag into the gutter-

No answer

He must be asleep.

I try the door handle as he never remembers to lock his front door despite me scolding him daily that 2 houses have already been burgled on his street so why won't he just be more sodding careful. And it opens.

I walk upstairs slowly, (my ass bones ache), and as I get to his closed bedroom door I shrug the fur so it falls down my shoulders, revealing my small but pert boobs falling out of my damp silk teddy, and I strut in.

"Okay, I know you said I shouldn't see you for a week because you don't want to give your yucky disease to me but I couldn't resis-"

I walk in, to see Ben, cock deep in swedish Ingrid.

She wipes her white blonde hair that is strewn across her hot sweaty face, and stares in horror as Ben drops his hands from supporting her ass, she collapses in a heap on the bed and violently grabs the sheets up to protect her modesty.

Ben stares, mouth agape, kind of like a sad clown fish, and begins stuttering inaudible excuses. He grabs his boxers from the floor and jumps into them, tripping as he puts both legs in the same hole, all the while I stand frozen, in dirty wet underwear, unable to take my eyes away from Ingrid's fantastic golden tan.

Doggy style?

Tramp.

I didn't hang around too long, in fact, I threw his Lemsip at him (but it actually hit Ingrid) and flew down his stairs, ignoring him yelling my name, and sprinted the whole way back with my fur coat hanging off my body, my hot tears blurring my vision, and my shame in the gutters, with my tampons.

And that brings us to tonight, I have snapped my Notebook DVD in half (with a cut finger to boot) and I am sat in my penguin jammies that I haven't worn since I was single, at 20, and that I don't intend of taking off for at least a week. I still have mascara stains streaked across my face and my new silky puddle water teddy lies in about 25 pieces at my feet. 

I am waiting for the girls to come over and comfort me. They best be quick, I have already eaten one tub of Phish Food, I still have Baked Alaska in the freezer... and I'm supposed to be on the Dukan Diet.