I used to be homeless. And by ‘used to be’ I mean four weeks ago, when I slept in a public restroom, a parking garage, a movie theatre and on the ground.

Just so you know, I do not have a drinking problem. I just like to party and have a good time. I feel like that’s an excuse one would give at an AA meeting, but I’m not totally sure because I’ve never been, because again – I do not have a drinking problem.

So four weeks ago, when I woke up on the ground…I asked myself, ‘How did I get here?’ ‘Why am I on the ground?’ ‘What time is it?’ ‘Where am I?’ and then I looked up and saw a public toilet bowl staring back at me.

One would think that inanimate objects such as a toilet bowl could not express shame, but this one did. It was ashamed and angry with me…for putting to waste two, sugar-rimmed watermelon martinis, a cucumber martini, and something else with vodka in it. But then I was like, “Fuck you, toilet bowl. You’re a toilet.” And I got up off the ground and stumbled to the mirror. Whenever I’m lost, I look for a mirror so I can be like, “Oh, there I am.” And there I was, still clothed. Thank God  – I like to take my clothes off when I’m drunk, as would recall a handful of fraternity boys from the University of Arizona circa 2004 – my slutty year.

Dried mascara oozed down my face, as though I had been violently throwing up or crying, probably both.  That’s when I remembered I had walked out on the last fifteen minutes of Magic Mike because my mouth started blubbering like it wanted to throw up. My mouth usually gets everything it wants – except for Channing Tatum’s peen.

I wiped the mascara tears from my face in what I now realized was the oddly quiet movie theatre bathroom. “Where is everyone?” I thought, not yet realizing everyone had gone home. And by everyone, I mean all of my ten friends who’d accompanied me to Magic Mike Ladies Night, the rest of Saturday night’s movie patrons, and the entire staff of the Arclight Hollywood. I was like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, but wasted Jeanie Bergen at the Arclight.

As I stood at the top of the stairs, both embarrassed and proud of myself for getting locked inside of the theatre, I spotted a giant clock. 2:45 a.m.  2:45 a.m.?! The movie had ended nearly three hours ago! That’s when I heard footsteps and spotted a man in a suit. Hoping he wasn’t a fancy rapist, I called out to him.

“Excuse me! I’ve been locked in. Can you help me?”

“How did that happen?” he demanded.

“I fell asleep in the theatre” …bathroom, I forgot to add.

I explained to him that I didn’t have my phone or my purse or money or any other proof that I wasn’t the transient I appeared to be. He called for a cab, which after a minute, I decided was taking too long.

“I’m going back to the theatre I was in to look for my purse,” I informed him, which was half-true. I mostly intended to sit down, especially after climbing the escalator back to Theatre 8. It had been turned off, being that it was 3 a.m. and I was the only patron still roaming around. It was like climbing the real stairs.

“Ow, my thighs,” I said, so irritated.

I went into the middle of the theatre (pretty sure it wasn’t even the one I had originally been in) and sat down. It was much more comfortable than the bathroom floor. So naturally, I fell back asleep. When I woke up, I was like, “Oh shoot. The cab,” and wobbled back down the defunct escalator to the lobby.

“Ma’am!” the guy in the suit beckoned. “You need to wait outside.”

“No. That’s unsafe,” I replied, as if passing out in the bathroom were any safer. To be totally honest with you, I’m not even 100% sure if I was in the women’s room or the men’s room. My giney wasn’t sore, so I’m guessing the women’s room.

“You could have been hate fucked in an alley,” said the guy I was seeing, though he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore after my Magic Mike escapade, claiming something about “timing” and “boopity boppity boo.” Who knows – I deleted the text.

Granted, he and my friends had formed a search party, calling area hospitals and trying to file a missing persons report in the middle of the night. A private detective was also involved at some point, according to the Facebook wall on my Magic Mike Ladies Night event page, where everyone rallied to find the details of my whereabouts…from the comfort of their homes.

Eventually, the cab picked me up from the Arclight at 3:30 a.m. and drove me home. I didn’t have any money, so I gave the cab driver my phone number and said: “Call me tomorrow.” He didn’t call, so I guess the ride was free. I wonder if he caught a glimpse of my giney, as I was wearing a dress with no underwear, which was particularly fun when I later tried to scale a wall into the apartment complex of the guy I am no longer seeing. (I frolicked to his place when I couldn’t get into my own, which makes sense because I didn’t have a key. Or any hope.)

(Editor’s Note: This is not Jeanie, it is an internet picture. The wall she scaled was bigger/more impressive.)

By then it was 5 a.m. and my upper body strength was failing me as I tried to lift myself onto a balcony from the garden trellis in which I was dangling. I eventually gave up and went to sleep on the floor of his parking garage, with what I’m guessing was rat poop. An hour later, I tried to get into his apartment complex again. I do not give up, you guys. I used the call box out front to see if anyone would let me in.

After about 45 minutes, his neighbor answered and let me in to the building. I had to knock on his door for a good while, and eventually he woke up when I began pummeling his window. He opened the door, glad to see that I had survived what I’m hoping was my first and last night of homelessness. Then he asked me how I got into his apartment complex.

“Someone let me in,” I said. I’m glad I didn’t have to follow with, “And by someone, I mean the garden trellis.”

Me. 3pm the next day.