We all know how the evening is going to end, and that after crazy night of dancing and before reaching you place there is a thing called Walk of Shame.
Kate Stephenson wrote funny yet true article for Pulse, and we are sharing her words below:
You know the drill. You’re afterpartied up to the eyeballs and all of a sudden daylight and reality suckerpunch you round the face with a wet kipper and one-two-three you’re back in the room – a total crack den miles away from the nearest train line. What was once a bright haven of hedonism, a nest of glazed-eyed D&Ms and next level bedroom DJing is now just a beat up room in an old house with bug-eyed jellyfish people tentacled out of their craniums. Trying to mask a newly acquired eye twitch and Saharan dry lips you are floundering in conversation, struggling to keep up the same yarn with the guy who has been your new BFF for the last five hours but in the cold light of day is suddenly about as endearing as the thought of work looming less than 24 hours away.
The music has stopped. There’s a girl crying about her boyfriend in the toilets. There’s only sherry left to drink. And you smoked your last dart half an hour ago. New BFF is flicking his lighter to spark a J and he hasn’t caught on that it’s not working. Flick. Flick. Flick. Like tiny fingernails on your cerebral cortex. Your eye twitch twerks in rhythm. You’re in that scene from Human Traffic. And you need to escape. But how? Where the fuck are you? And who the fuck are these huckmoles you’ve been hanging out with for the last three days? It’s time to bail faster than Grooverider through Dubai airport security. You sharp harp it out the back door and make a break for freedom.
Escape route planned, you find a final notice lecky bill on the table with the address of this hellhole – you ledge! Now all you have to do is uber the way out of here via the back garden. But rifling in your bag for your phone you find it dead – just like your hopes and dreams. You remember with despair your conscious decision to leave your sunnies on the bench at home like the stupid fairyfloss head that you are. You know you are Queen of the Kick On, so why the rookie error? Trudging out into a rainy day, you contemplate the transience of friendships, the meaning of life and the reason you thought it was a good idea to wear a sequin bodystocking with no jacket the night before.