I met DJ an hour late at The Guesthouse on Mills. He ordered my spicy skinny margarita just before the bar closed, knowing I’d be late. The vibes were immaculate, as a 22 year old would say.

We met at the airport a few years ago. He was a TSA Agent I developed a crush on, but nothing was pursued until earlier this year. (I won’t count last year’s drunk hookup with SpongeBob in the background.)

I’d closed myself off to romance, but was curious to see if DJ could be an exception. I got my answer one night when he came to my apartment. He asked to use my bathroom and after 30 minutes, I thought he jumped out the window after seeing me with no makeup.

I realized he was just having one of those drunk nights because I found him trying to sleep on my bath mat, blocking the door and his jeans neither on or off. I requested a Lyft and rode with him home. A few days later, I let him know he wasn’t the exception.

Back in the present, like a modern-day Cinderella, DJ wanted to leave as the clock struck 2.

“No. When you’re with Darry, you close out the bar. And,” I looked around, “I know they’re technically closed, but it’s not closed until we’re the last people here.”

And so we officially closed out Guesthouse.

I found out his favorite flowers are lillies, and he found mine were sunflowers. Throughout the conversation, I realized how much I missed romance. He was mentally saving every important detail. And somehow, my ditzy and forgetful brain remembered his life.

He works at that hip hotel with the rooftop bar in the non-hip Downtown Orlando. I remembered the security guard who got fired after sleeping with someone from the front desk, the barista who made his daily matcha, and the valet who called out every week.

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We walked on Mills after Guesthouse. A few blocks down, a guy had one too many and I accidentally stepped on his vomit. As I moonwalked on the grass, wondering if he’d end up on someone’s bath mat too, DJ and I ended up in front of Lorelei, where I had wanted to dine since I discovered it.

We made reservations for Valentine’s.

I ordered a Lyft for help with the walk back and then DJ drove me home. But I wasn’t ready for the night to end so I told him to stop at Wawa. “I’m hungry.”

I was hungry, but I’d never ask to stop at Wawa. Especially at 3 am, when they stopped making loaded fries. But I did. I ordered a spicy chicken sandwich, a Caesar, and a Diet Cherry Coke. I was hungry.

At home, I said goodbye 10 times. But I still wasn't ready. “Come inside. I don’t want your BLT to get cold.” I knew BLTs were cold.

We went inside and I forgot to light my candles. For dessert, Klondike Bars from Dollar General. I hadn’t had one since I was a kid. Very artificial. But DJ didn’t care about the spicy chicken breath, Voluspa’s Baltic Amber, or GMO-filled ice cream. He just cared about me. All night.

As I walked him out, he said, “Tomorrow I have a reservation for Earl’s at…”

“Yes.”

“…four o’clock. It’s happy hour.”

“Yeah, I was going to Millennia anyways.” It was true. “I have to do Bloomingdales so I’ll do that before. I’ll save the Pottery Barn clearance section for us after.”

He laughed. And then I kissed him.

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The next day, I met him at 4:40. I noticed the staff enjoying our foodie fairytale romance. I decided to tell the server this was our first date. Perhaps like an Opentable reservation, I could modify our story.

Our server was watching us leave so I told DJ I had to go to the restroom, and he should join me. I knew they knew what that meant. I had to add some spice. For the plot.

I’m not sure where this will go, or if I’m particularly ready for a true romance, but I’m glad I gave DJ a second chance. And as long as management remains the same, Earl’s Kitchen + Bar will not give us a second chance for a reservation.

I think I’m a chameleon not only because I can adapt, but because sometimes you can tell I can’t. You’ve definitely seen red if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of my anger.

There’s the part of me impressing corporate leaders 9 to 5, and another spending Friday afternoon at a museum or cinema. The Darry who writes, and the Darry who’s ditzy. The Darry who ends up in a bush at 2 AM in Downtown Orlando, Messica.

It’s all me. Personalities, versions, alter egos, whatever you want to call them, all coexisting in my world. But Saturday night left me with battle scars, an urgent care visit, and a broken door frame. I couldn’t help but wonder why these parts of me were never in the same room.

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The Virgo Look

Gabriel, who lives in the apartment across from me, knocked on my door Sunday afternoon. He was probably visiting to catch up on weekend shenanigans over this week’s episode of Drag Race.

He almost dropped the champagne bottle when he saw my face.

“Who are we beating up?”

I gave him the rundown of my Saturday night.

“Give me your phone. I’m blocking them right now.”

“No! You can’t block him, he’s one of my best friends!”

He gave me a look only a virgo could give. “You’re going to have to reconsider what a friend is.”

I’m Ditzy fucking Darry, of course I made it home.

Our last stop for the night was Anthem, Orlando’s newest gay club, and it was the most fun I’ve had here so far. Towards the end of the night my friends Juniper and Levi were getting escorted out by security, interrupting a flirtatious conversation I was having with a cute guy visiting from Boston. I followed them out because we arrived together, so we leave together. Right?

When I got outside, everyone was gone. I walk towards the parking lot, but turn on Robinson a block too soon.

With nobody in sight, I decide to stay put because I wasn’t about to have some rom-com moment where we miss each other by walking opposite sides of the block. So I sit pretty in the brightest, most visible part of the street: the public charging lot for electric cars.

And then, my phone slips out of my hand and into a bush.

I saw exactly where it fell, but there must’ve been some type of rabbit hole it dropped into because I couldn’t find it. So here I am: on all fours, intoxicated, realizing humans can have complicated relationships with partners, parents, and apparently, bushes.

I get self-conscious. I’m probably giving ‘Crackhead in Wonderland’ about to fall into the same rabbit hole. So I decide Find My will handle it later.

And so I keep sitting pretty, for longer than I’d like to admit, knowing it was the smart thing to do. They’ll find me, I’m only a block away…

No car. No Juniper. No Levi. Not even someone to charge their Tesla.

It’s fine, I’ll walk. Body tea, mental GPS on, independent woman playlist on my invisible AirPods.

Within the first few steps, I trip over the curb and fall into another bush. At this point, I think my girl Tia is sending me signs I’m overdue for my Brazilian.

I walked from Downtown to the Hourglass District. Alone. Feeling like Sydney fucking Prescott.

Final Girl Realness

I’m staring at myself in the mirror and I look like a final girl after the credits roll. My makeup is gone. A cheek now adorned with a scrape. Not what I meant when I said I needed new blush.

No phone, no keys. I had to break into my apartment to get in. I’ll fix the doorframe before I move out (or the next inspection).

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The NYC Way

I spent Monday pretending it didn’t happen, but by Tuesday I was ready to talk about it. Vivian is a friend from New York who happened to be in town. I invited her to Tamale Co, Hourglass District’s Mexican street food staple.

“Mad fucked up. It don’t matter if y’all beefing, you being a whole mess—they needed to find you.”

She started to tell me about a night out with one of her own girls. On the way home from the club, her friend jumped out of their uber at a red light. Vivian followed, but couldn’t keep up.

“That sobered me up real quick, but I’m not leaving a female out there alone. I told the driver to take me to whatever bar was still open and deadass, she was there. I beat her ass and dragged her back to 67th to find my bracelet. We ain’t cool no more, but I wasn’t gonna leave her. You just don’t do that. Not how I move.”

I asked Vivian if she thought this happened because ‘I’m Madonna,’ what I’m known as in New York. The main character of adventures that become memorable tales people ask me to share again and again.

She laughed. “It’s giving Am I the Drama?” Now she was holding my hands. “I don’t see you doing anything that makes this okay. Am I surprised? No. I’ll be surprised when you get somebody pregnant, but we’ve partied before. You said it yourself, you’re a meatball.”

Onion Theory

Shrek was right about the onions. It’s not the most glamorous metaphor, but it’s honest. Layers.

Different situations get different layers, and most people never get past the first layer they see. Arguably, they don’t need to. Some of us are careful not to peel away too much of ourselves when sharing with others, which can become an agreement we don’t realize we’re making.

Messica is great for a fun night. She makes you feel warm, gets you on the floor (no JLO), knows where the after and after-after party is. Messica is who they signed up for—just not who they show up for.

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I spent the rest of the weekend trying to be fair about it. They got kicked out, so there was chaos, maybe confusion? I’m an adult and people can’t always account for everyone when a night falls apart.

But then I think about Gabriel almost dropping our champagne, ready to fight. Vivian chasing her friend on 67th at 4 AM. Neither of them needed to peel more layers to justify making sure their friend is safe and no one is left behind.

The difference wasn’t as symbolic as I was trying to make it be.

What Mom Thinks

“It’s not about being independent or knowing your way home. It’s about loyalty.”

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So far, being independent is full of “happy little accidents.” I’ve accidentally said yes too many times at the gay club. That usually ends up with me joining an after, or an after-after party. Sometimes it ends up with me enjoying one too many drinks.

I’ve found that many of the mistakes I’ve experienced in Orlando come in male form.

The guy I went home with last weekend? Mistake. Mauricio, who you’ll meet later? Mistake. Believing a guy that says they’re in an open relationship? Big mistake. Telling you about it? Hmm…

And I’ll take accountability for making the mistakes. Including the ones I make swiping my credit card at Bloomingdale’s.

As a mostly safe party girl, I feel that the difference between the two should be clearly defined. But as a mostly mature 25-year-old, I know it’s not always that simple.

Despite my constant happy little accidents and last weekend’s mistakes, my art and passion is intentional.

I find artistic expression everywhere: my all-black capsule wardrobe, the sunflowers around my apartment, the way I browse the Pottery Barn clearance section.

But writing is my most vulnerable form of expression. Just like a good film or a good album, it allows me to process what’s going on in my head. Because all we see is a ditzy person stumbling into The Hampton Social or Sixty Vines, on the hunt for truffle fries and the perfect spicy skinny margarita.

The Ditzy Diaries is a reminder that we’re all still figuring it out. It’s okay to live in your own little world. It’s okay to not know how to share your feelings out loud. It’s okay to be messy, to make mistakes.

So I hope the mess looks a little less lonely from where you’re sitting.

stay messy,