Tuesday, August 3, 2010

What was in my glass?

You'd think by now that if a club is called The Abattoir, I'd realise that going was a bad idea. Apparently not. A line-up that felt like some kind of bizarre test*? Check. Men wearing sunglasses indoors, at night? Check. Cocktails so expensive that they made my purse cry tiny leather tears? Check. I said to Anise they should call it The Tool Chest. I think she agreed; I couldn't really hear her over the re-re-re-re-mix. (Note to self: Temper Trap + Duran Duran mash-up = ears bleeding. "Our love was lost.... WILD BOYS!")

We stayed about four hours longer than we should have (e.g. four hours and two minutes). You know how sometimes you think that as you survived the wait, the entrance fee, the initial drink price shock, and several clumsy come-ons, you may as well get your money's worth by watching other people dance? Yeah. For our entertainment, there were three types of people on the floor:

1. I've Seen All Of Snoop Dogg's Clips: Watch Me Audition!
2. Man Doing Own Thing (To Own Tempo)
3. When In Doubt, Wave Your Arms and Scream At Your Friends

It was the first time Anise and I had been out in a while, after all the stuff that's happened. Perhaps we were determined to Enjoy Ourselves, regardless of how shit the drinks were. (Did we dance? Of course. Did we point a lot and wear slightly pained expressions? Of course. Standards must be maintained.) Anyway, I was stressing it'd be awkward, and it kind of was, initially. After the fifth glass of Faint-Maker, or whatever that drink was called, we did that thing. That thing where you suddenly decide it's a really great time to have completely honest conversations with people because they really have to know right now exactly what you think of them and then you tell them how much you love them and then you both cry and then you look up to see dudes in hipster t-shirts looking at you like you're a zoo exhibition.

Hysterical Woman (feminus irrationalus).
Usually found in: social situations regarding alcohol.
General description: skilled in the art of camouflage. Many are unaware that they are in the presence of such a creature until certain conditions (weddings, Ikea furniture, family Christmas dinners, one overdue report too many) prompt them to reveal their true nature.
Identifiers: non-waterproof mascara, glazed eyes, crumpled tissues, possibly clutching disembodied head of victim or adjustable spanner.

Anyway, I think things are on the mend. Except for my cracker of a hangover, which twelve hours of sleep hasn't made a friggin' dent in. Off to bed. Again.

* And I should know.

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