So actually this is also on her blog with pictures but it is somehow more satisfying, at least to me, to read it without the pictures and to create them in your mind.

Before I get started, just know that the cleaning service I called gave me an estimate of $450. Since most of the damage happened after I passed out, I'm not footing this entire bill. In all the years that I've had parties, I've never so much as even asked for someone to stay and help me clean up, let alone chip in for any of the booze or anything. But today, I'm livid. The people who fucked up my shit know who you are. You have to give me something. I don't care if you're poor. If you can't afford to be an asshole, than you shouldn't act like one.

You can make a deposit into the "I Can Be Tracie's Friend Again" fund via my PayPal account by clicking the following link. You do not need to have a Paypal account in order to do this.

[She includes a PayPal link here]

I've hosted lots of parties in my day, but nothing—nothing—has ever even neared the level of destruction (and blatant disrespect) that happened at my place after I puked and passed out last night. Seriously, this beats out the time that I had a party when my parents went away when I was 17 and Amanda Spence fell down the steps and broke the spokes of the wooden banister, as well as her cheek bone. I understand you guys are party animals, but frankly, I think that some of you are just plain animals. Like wine spilled all over the walls? Are you kidding me?

And it got on my signed Dolly Parton poster, which as some of you know, is one of my most prized possessions in the world.

I heard that Callie fell down the stairs, so I'm assuming that she did this. I also heard that someone poured champagne from the second floor into the Callie's mouth on the first floor. You know, that really fucking pisses me off. There's a fucking television and speakers right there that it could've gotten on, you shit slices. And I know that if that stuff got destroyed, your asses would not compensate me in any way beyond a "Sorry dude." I would never do that in someone's house, whether it's a dump, squat, dorm room or mansion. I wanted people to have a good time. I went out of my way for people to have a good time, and it pisses me off that it was my friends, not strangers, who were doing this shit. I expected a huge mess when I woke up this morning, and expected to do heavy duty cleaning, but this is unreal. I'm fucking pissed.

And who's the asshole who poured beer all over himself? Was that you, Brian? It smells like mildew in here now.

I don't know what the hell was going on in the bathroom downstairs (I do however know about a blow job that went on in the bathroom upstairs...not performed by me), but the shower curtain rod was pulled out of the wall and the rings are broken.

The kitchen suffered damages as well.

There's a hole in the wall, too. It's blurry, but it's there.

I take responsibility for the floors, since the glitter was my idea. It was really pretty when those things popped off.

Oh, and you can't really tell from this picture, but that's an o.b. tampon on my couch. For you boys that don't know, those are the kind you have to finger yourself to use. I don't use them because I don't wash my hands after I use the bathroom.

Anyway, Happy New Year to you all! Even to the assholes who wrecked my place and to the assholes who were the last to leave and left the fucking front door wide open for the entire place to be burgled. I woke up at like 5 am because someone kept calling my phone repeatedly because he thought he left his gloves here. Apparently it was urgent for him to get them, but I'm glad he called, because otherwise, I would've slept through the night with the roof door and the apartment door open.

Also, my ass has the biggest bruise on it and I can't really walk. And this happened to my arm:

I am unable to move. Seriously, my ass is really fucked up. I can't bend over, which is why I called a cleaning service to come here, because it is not humanly possible for me to do this alone. I didn't even include the roof pictures, because there was a pile of chunky puke up there, and as a hangover present, I decided to not include that.

I went to a party last Saturday night, I didn't get laid, I got in a fight.

So, this kegger was on South 3rd Street in Williamsburg and was hosted by a couple of 23-year-old boys, one of whom had a heart-shaped hickey on his neck, no joke. (Emosexual!) I didn't get there there till like 1 a.m., thinking that the party wouldn't really be going until then. But it turns out I missed the band, and the keg was kicked. I managed to find a plastic bag filled with cans of Miller High Life, so I put them in my purse and made my way to the roof.

Up there, I found a drum kit, a mic stand, and a bunch of people drinking Sparks. If it weren't for the evidence of an iPhone or two, I totally would've thought I'd traveled back in time to those heady days of 2005, when we were all hopped up on malt liquor energy bevs. Like, people still drink Sparks? And they actually buy it, rather than get it for free from Vice parties or Steve Aoki?

I invited Dana, because I knew that she would stir some shit up. Or at least take her shirt off at some point. She's achieved a modicum of micro-fame on the internet for such behavior. Anyway, she made a beeline for the mic stand and drums, and the people at the party were trying to tell her to lay off them. They were all, "You're wasted! We can tell." Apparently, they're the type to kill kegs and pound Sparks to achieve a light buzz. Drunks are not welcome at their ragers.

Anyway, Dana started beating on the drums like they were bongos, which prompted one dude to leap into the drum kit and knock her over. Once that mess began, Calisha Jenkins, one half of Drunky Brewster, began screaming one of their rap songs. A lyric that stuck with me was, "Just because you poked me in my butt/ Doesn't mean that I'm a fuckin' slut."

The dudes at the party hated it and were screaming, "She sucks! This stinks!" But you know what stinks? Armpits—especially when they're being ventilated and flaunted. You know what else stinks? Calisha's vagina. She'd been shoving garlic up there as a home remedy for a vaginal ailment.

And even though the jerks at the party were booing Calisha, the young thugs on the roof one building over were hootin' and hollerin'. They were loving every last drip-drop of her garlic in clam sauce. Dana began "interacting" with them (probably a one-boob flash) and we invited them over. They came bearing gifts of blunts and Coronas, which they opened with their teeth.

After the dude crashed the drums and the mini-thugs crashed the party, the too-cool-for-school set hopped the barrier and sat in the corner of the neighbor's roof deck. Either they didn't know or didn't care that all night long, dudes were using that area as a urinal.

At about 3:30, this Mystery-pick-up-artist flunkee-type with a flavor saver came up to me and was like, "OK, we're wrapping this up now. Time to go home." I was like, "Do you live here?" And he was like, "No but I know someone who does." And I was like, "Yeah, I know someone who lives here, too, and it's cool if I stay." Then he began yelling about how he was gonna beat someone up. And I was like, "Do you mean me?" And he was all, "Yeah, I'd hit a girl!" And I was like, "Oh, I'd like to see you try!" And he was all, "I'll really do it." And despite my best efforts at wishing and hoping that he'd pull a punch and liven up this dying party, he completely pussied out and instead started making calls on his phone.

As the night wore on, it became increasingly obvious that I'd be going home alone, even though there were these two sorta fuckable guys there. My friend ended up banging one of them. She called me the next morning to tell me his penis was small and that he was one of those dudes that like fucks you forever without noticing that you've become bored and dry.

I decided to call it a night, but then I met this dude who introduced himself as Billy Dee Williams. I told him my name was Eartha Kitt. We hung out on the front stoop with his friend while he rolled a blunt. But then the two boys got in a fight over the fact that the cigar dropped on the ground. The issue was oddly important to them and the situation became really tense and uncomfortable, so I ran into the street to hail the next cab that rolled up. Bill Dee Williams was like, "Hey, we're sorry. It's cool. You should hang out." I began to give it a second thought but then he said, "I mean, it's not like you have your own weed at home, right?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," I said. I climbed into the cab headfirst, and made my way home, where I smoked it in peace and quiet.

When I read Angels and Kings investor Jamison Ernest's comment about how he hopes people will have sex in his new bar's bathrooms, I couldn't help but view it as a challenge.

I waited a little bit for the brouhaha of the newly opened 11th Street "dive bar" to die down first. Although I have to admit that I did think of popping in to "AK 47" during those six days or so when people were actually still going there, because I was entertained by the idea of leaving the bathroom, post BJ, and pushing past Ashlee, being sure to brush my saliva/cum/ball-must hand against her extensions. Don't get me wrong, I love Pieces of Me as much as the next drunk girl, but you know, I'm also a cunty whore.

Actually, more than anything, I was interested to hear what the staff at the bar thought about bathroom debauchery. Here's the bouncer:

The pretty boy bartender wasn't nearly as nice when we tried to film him. In fact, he was a total penis wrinkle about it. And you know what? I'd bet dollars to donuts that he's an aspiring actor/band member. Here's the permalink of your missed 15 minutes, buddy. Anyway, I was like, "So do you think that Ernest's and Wentz's comments in the press have brought in a lot of riffraff to this place?"

Bristled and arrogant he said, "Riffraff? This isn't like the other bars I work at. Lit gets riffraff. This place gets kindergarteners." I looked around the room and the only other people in the entire bar were two middle-aged couples talking quietly. If it weren't for their salt and pepper hair, I might've thought that pleated khakis were the new irony trend.

"Are those the kindergarteners?"

He stared at me, so I pushed on. "Are they Pete Wentz's 'loser friends?'"

"I have to get back to work," he answered. He walked down to the other end of the bar and stood motionless, arms crossed, staring at nothing in particular. He's lucky he was out of my reach, or else I would've wiped my hand on him.

As far as the actual bathrooms go, they're clean and roomy and I'd have to say that they're great for doing anything, really. Correction: It's sort of dim in there—lit by a candle and a red bulb—so I wouldn't plan on reading the paper while taking a dump. But it was so dead in that place that you definitely could be leisurely doing whatever it is you need to do and not worry about anyone knocking on the door. There's a little wooden end table to place your bag, compact mirror holding a line or two, or yourself, if you don't want to get your knees dirty while you're gettin' dirty.

I give this john 3.5 out of 4 Ds.

Williamsburg's K&M bar (at 225 N. 8th Street) is on my short list of places I frequent because I'm too lazy to leave my neighborhood. The bar doesn't get as overcrowded as other neighborhood haunts—and that's a good thing. Especially when you have dubious endeavors on the agenda. And when I say dubious endeavors, I mean events that begin with snorting a "usable amount" of a drug off some guy's johnson.

K&M barmaid Andrea (pronounced like Zuckerman), an Aussie transplant, gave me some dirt on "bah beethroom behave-ya." Between her accent and the heinous music the DJ in the dirty white pants was playing, it's a little hard to understand what she's saying, but it involves coke, vomit, pot and sex.

The last time I was at K&M, this dude brought me into the ladies' room and gave me some coke. We didn't bother ducking into a stall, since the place was dead anyway. When we were through, I watched him pinch the baggie shut. On a whim I said, "Hey, you want me to do some off your dick?" He didn't flinch. He didn't even look at me. He just whipped out his cock and dumped a bump's worth on his shaft (which was an impressive size, even when flaccid). I bent over and sucked it up. He put his dick away and we both left the bathroom.

About two minutes later, my stomach began rumbling. I headed back to the ladies' and went into the only stall. I'm not sure I could accurately convey just how horrible the air quality became in that bathroom when I was done with it—but I'll try. It was like I took an enormous pot of summertime East River water, added some kimchi, a cycle's worth of tampons, a burnt vacuum belt, a dash of sulfur, and some coils of used dental floss, brought it to a boil, and then filled the tiny space with the thick, foggy steam. I tried to finish up as quickly as possible so I could flee the scene, but as I was pulling up my tights, I heard the door open.

I exited the stall and tried to hide my face behind my hair. Through my fringe, I saw an obese woman, probs around late 20s/early 30s, standing in front of me. "Oh, don't go in there. It stinks," I told her. I sort of tried to pretend that I only happened upon the stench, rather than birthed it.

"Oh yeah, thanks for the warning!" She was jolly, which fit her body type. "Watch the door for me," she said as she begin to unbuckle her belt and pull down her pants. I watched in horror as her FUPA unfurled and she attempted to hoist herself onto the porcelain sink.

"Are you gonna piss in there?" I asked. "That's... not good." What I really wanted to say was, "That's gonna break if you plant your fat ass on it," but I didn't want to hurt her feelings as she was already willing to make herself so vulnerable. Plus, I felt like maybe she was onto me about what caused the smell.

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I could read on her face the recognition that perhaps she shouldn't have done this; that she was wasted and this wasn't particularly acceptable behavior. She scooted herself away from the sink, and having seen too much, I left the bathroom—but returned to it every 15 minutes or so with that dude, his little baggie, and his big business.

I feel like I'm always getting my ass dragged to Cheap Shots, the East Village dump at 140 First Avenue where the birthday boy or girl drinks for free all night. I shouldn't complain too much, because celebrating such an occasion there takes the pressure off of me having to pitch in precious cash to get someone else drunk. And, actually, it's not so bad to get myself drunk there either because, as the name would suggest, the hooch is really cheap. But a better name for that bar would be "Crap Shoots" because that's what the meet market sitch is there. Frugal drunks come in many forms (NYU kids, chunky Latin lezzers, callous-faced old men, broke skaters in $80 T-shirts), which makes that bar like a box of chocolates—you never know what you're gonna get.

At the most recent birthday bender I attended there, I was wise enough to bring a dude with me. I'm into sure things, and based on past Cheap Shots experiences, I wasn't about to show up dateless, keeping my fingers crossed and legs open in hopes that I'd meet someone suitable to bang.

There are two unisex bathrooms at Cheap Shots at the back of the bar, in a little alcove that also houses a beer pong table. Hey, anyone up for some reggae?

But truth be told, I can't help but sort of love fratty dudes, because 1.) I've never had much interaction with them, so they're kind of like an exotic species, and 2.) their primitive nature lends itself
to authentic sentiment, however drunkenly evinced. Like this one, scrawled above the beer pong table at Cheap Shots that reads "I (heart) women because breasts."

Anyway, my date and I went in one of the johns there for some tongue action, because I hate PDAs. This is what the bathroom looks like normally, and then again under the harsh reality of a digicam's flash.

After locking the door behind us, we immediately covered our faces from the smell. The smell, oh God, that smell! It's not surprising when dive bar cans stink, but usually they smell like a zoo, or the ghost of poops passed. This one was straight-up piss. But like, really, really, really strong ammonia-y piss. It was like someone took some industrial strength cleaner and splashed it in our faces. Any burning desire we'd previously shared was replaced by the pain of our burning eyes.

Between the dingy lighting, the muddy floors, the peeling paint and our screams, it felt like we were in a horror movie. Barely able to see out of our now-tearing eyes, we both frantically fumbled for the lock, trying to escape the stench that we feared might suffocate us. As soon as we were free, we looked at each other, breathed a sigh of relief—it filled our lungs up with the comparably pleasant stale beer air—and held each other. We'd made it! We survived! And we went back to his place and had a bunch of sex to celebrate our new lease on life.

I give this bathroom 0 out of 4 Ds.

In this first inSTALLment of Potty Girl, we head to Enid's (60 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn), a bar/restaurant that plays an important role for anyone living in the conveniently commutable, yet inconveniently social section of Greenpoint. The joint is forever cycling through highs and lows on the ever-morphing hipster gauge. The clientele tends to be a mix of people from notable bands, creepy, aging, drunken Polish dudes, creepy, aging, drunken hipsters, and one time, Drew Barrymore. But whatevs to all of that, because between its delicious weekend brunch and my nighttime bathroom antics, I'm always happily stuffing my mouth when I visit Enid's.

Enid's main attraction is the same as its major pitfall—it's local. It will never become crazy popular because it's too much of a pain in the ass to get to. (The closest train is the G, which stands for "Good luck getting anywhere on time with this lousy excuse for mass transit.") Yet, it's great for patrons from the 'hood as a place to pop in on your way home, before last call, or for those of us who are too lazy to leave the borough to begin with.

Picking up randoms at Enid's would be a pleasant surprise, but shouldn't be counted on. Basically, this bar is BYOD (bring your own dick). It's more of a final frontier for the hookup you've already secured. It's your last chance to ascertain the physical situation ( i.e., yank their pants down and make sure there are no blisters, rashes or other genital deformities) before heading back to your house to bang 'em out.

One of the reasons that Enid's is so awesome, bathroom-wise, is that the bar is usually uncrowded, enabling one to spend a significant amount of time in the powder room, powdering a nose. There's even a nice little table to rack up lines in each of the two unisex bathrooms that's not anywhere near the toilets or sinks, so there's no danger of dumping out your baggie only to have its contents get all wet and ruined.

Warning: The tables are sort of old, and there's no telling whether they were a product of dumpster diving, so don't lean up to hard or sit on them if you're making out with someone. You just don't know if those legs will buckle. But you know, the table and mirror setup [pictured right] is pretty good for bracing yourself if you want to watch as someone takes you from behind. The fact that there are probably only like 10 other people in the bar will ensure that there will be no door pounding while you're getting your pounding.

I used to think that the floors there were clean (or at least comparably so), but then I saw these pictures when I wasn't drunk, and, um, let's just say that I'll no longer be coming home from there with blackened knees.

The other reason that Enid's bathrooms get my approval is that they are incredibly spacious, so you can easily bring a group of friends in there for some key bumps, or you can bring a conquest in there and have plenty of room to sort of drunkenly fall all over while making out without having to brush a leg up against a dewy toilet.

Also, because they're so big, and because they are private unisex bathrooms, rather than stalls, you can do much more, sexually, than you can in other bars. So actually, the bathrooms at Enid's serve more as foreplay rather than as an audition; an appetizer rather than a taste test. Hopefully, if all goes well, you'll be hungry for more.

I give it 3.5 Ds out of 4.