I will eat pita chips.
I will drink wine.
I will take lengthy bathroom breaks during acceptance speeches made by middle-aged bearded guys who do boring things like sound editing.
I will eat more pita chips.
I will drink more wine.
I will say something wildly inappropriate about the “special achievement award” I’d like to personally present to George Clooney.
I will get the silent treatment from my husband.
I will switch to vodka.
I will sloppily cry during the Death montage, then go 4 for 4 in the foreign film category.
I will find some Benadryl.
I will stain the couch by trying to say “Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award” with a mouthful of hummus.
I will loudly argue that Action Jackson is too up for Best Picture.
I will make a thinly veiled death threat against Randy Newman.
I will fade in and out.
I will French kiss my TV when I see Stanley Tucci in the audience.
I will wake up in the guest room.