Thursday, July 24, 2008

In which I learn my lesson

Ohmigod you guys I am going to have SUCH a big night tonight. Everyone’s going to be there and it’s free booze all night. I’ve got some awesome new shoes and I’m going to do my hair all fancy and shiny – this is seriously going to be the best night of the year(!)

No it’s not and no you’re not, you fuckhead, because you’ve just doomed yourself to a night that will be the equivalent of being date raped by your physics teacher on a fun-to-fun ratio.

For a start you won’t be able to decide on an outfit because everything you try on makes your arse look tiny and your tits massive, or visa versa, depending on your inclination and the size of any junk in your trunk. I wouldn’t worry about that yet, though, because only when you arrive at your destination will the mirror in the bathroom tell you what your bedroom lighting did not – your top is see-through. And you’ve left your coat at home.

But that’s okay because by this stage at least one member of your group has cancelled at the last minute anyway, so that’s one less person to witness your shame (and your aereola). Meanwhile another friend has just had a huge fight with her boyfriend and is busily alternating between slurring drunkenly that she’s too good for him anyway and disappearing with your mobile to call him. Don’t get too worried about her, though, because she’ll ditch you before midnight to catch a taxi to his house anyway.

If you haven’t had your drink spiked by now then don’t worry you’ve probably drunk so much you’ll throw up out of the window of your own taxi on the way home anyway. That’s after you’ve spilled your kebab down the front of your top, been called a slut by a group of passing bogans and destroyed at least one and possibly both of your shoes via an ill-advised shortcut down a back alley. You’ve lost your wallet so the taxi driver has to wait for you outside your house with a highly suspicious look on his face while you ferret around the change bowl and eventually have to pay him off in five cent pieces. If not the hairy chequebook.

My point, if you can even get your head around such incredible subtley, is that SAYING you’re going to have a great night is the one thing guaranteed to NOT let you have a good night. Much like fight club, the first rule of having a good night is you do not talk about having a good night. A really good night out cannot be managed or planned, not properly. You can do your best to blow dry your hair, shore up good company and start the night off with a really quite sensationally good nip of booze but nothing you do will stop it from all falling into a shit pile if you look at it too closely.

It is with this mind that I assure you all I am going home from work right now not to have a delightful lazy night reading my book with my doona over my legs, a bottle of wine at my elbow and creamy pasta to soothe my slightly store throat. Oh no, I’m well aware that when I get home the house will be a tip, burgalrs will have stolen the entire contents of my bookshelf and young Andy will have run off with a cocktail waitress whose name is Tiffanii-with-two-is at the end. Probably.

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