Read Drinking and Tweeting for Free Online Page B

time to leave his ass, but only after he gave me a ride to the airport. Actually, it took me two attempts to board an airplane to Paris at San Francisco International Airport. On the first attempt, I purposefully missed my flight after discovering that I had an absolutely paralyzing fear of flying—one that still haunts me and requires a prescription pill. At a “friend’s” suggestion, I headed to San Francisco’s Mission District and bought some pills that would help me pass out. The dealer told me it was the equivalent of taking a Valium. I popped the pill before takeoff and woke up only when the flight attendant started shaking me to see if I wanted food; apparently I had “roofied” myself. Yep, the date-rape drug. After ten hours and a few hallucinations, I woke up on the runway of Charles de Gaulle Airport.
    I found myself eight thousand miles away fromeverything I had ever known and was now living in a completely foreign city. I didn’t speak the language and soon figured out that I can’t fucking stand French food. (I wish Mexico had a high-fashion scene; I could eat tacos every night.) It was both terrifying and exhilarating. I was ready for this adventure.
    I can appreciate now how this opportunity fell into my lap, but I like to think that God front-loaded my life with blessings, knowing that one day I would have to deal with Eddie.
    A driver was waiting for me at the airport, a luxury that was completely lost on me at the time. I seriously figured that everybody must have a driver pick him or her up at the airport—maybe it was built into the price of the ticket? I had no frame of reference. The driver was to take me directly to the agency in Paris. I was hoping that after a ten-hour flight and a drug-induced haze that I would at least have a few minutes to freshen up, but no such luck. When you’re seventeen years old, I guess you can never look that bad. Plus, I suppose they figured they would be seeing me during a lot of hazy moments, so they might as well be prepared. They would have been right to think that. #PartyAnimal.
    When I arrived at the agency, they told me I would be moving into the “models’ apartment,” with other models from around the world, all of whom were even more stunning than the pictures in their portfolios. And there I was, a girl from the hood of Sacramento with only two test shoots by a little-known San Francisco photographer. I was beyond intimidated, but it couldn’t dampen my excitement—once the drugs had worn off.
    Making friends was never difficult for me, and I quickly bonded with the girls. By the end of my first week, I was dancing the night away with my new roomies at Bains Douches, the absolute hottest club in Paris at the time. It was the beginning of six amazing years when I traveled the world, danced with princes, and spent evenings with some of the most interesting people at some of the most lavish parties one could ever imagine.
    Not to go all Eat Pray Love , but traveling can be wonderfully therapeutic. During those years, I wasn’t necessarily overcoming any particular hardship, but the experiences gifted me a sense of awareness that proved helpful during my breakup and subsequent early midlife crisis. Plus, it afforded me a wonderful life. I made goodmoney and paid back my parents all they had lent me through the years. Looking back, I cherish the time I spent there and would never change a single minute. I was introduced to so many amazing cultures, languages, and, of course, so much delicious food (besides French).
    If you haven’t traveled, I suggest you go immediately to Milan and head to the Duomo, a beautiful church in the center of the city. When you get there, find the little hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop and order a mozzarella-and- pomodoro sandwich. Molto molto caldo! (Very, very hot!) Enjoy. #CarbsRock.
    One day, I’m going to take my entire family to Milan . . . and Sardinia and Saint-Tropez. We’ll of course travel by private