That is the question!  Word has traveled abroad that the creatives at House of Vomitola are “dehydrated” and “suffering from exhaustion.”  These are terrible problems that all beautiful people seem to face.  What is it about the lack of sleep and enough Fiji water that makes one curl into a ball, weeping and motionless apart from occasionally putting one’s fist out for more klonipin?  Perhaps it is the crown what makes the head too heavy to lift. 

But Vomitola can’t be fired from Vomitola.  Over our bewigged and botoxed bodies!  They cannot take away our shiny keys to the executive lav!  I cannot use a toilet that does not feature the voice of Stephen Frye, telling me I am brilliant as my fanny is spritzed lightly with rosewater.  Surely we can offer our most insincere of mea culpas to our public, throw a really nice party, and we’ll be back to eating mini bruschetta off of a jewel encrusted sea turtle in no time.  What?  We have to go to Promises?  But we don’t believe in those.  But we must.  I hope there aren’t any Disney stars there right now, I would hate to have to beat any plump lipped tweens on my very first day at a new resort.  Hate is such a strong word, isn’t it?

Well, I suppose we must get to packing.  I go nowhere without bath salts, my ermine underwear, and my poor Pomeranian, Ernest, who had to be stuffed because he really just would not shut up.  Promises, promises!