Sunday, April 29, 2007
i could teach you a thing or two
“Drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney, danced like a madwoman. This means I had a good night.”
You can tell when you look at my outfit. There’s a map of stains and smells that show just how good a night I had. Make up on the neckline of my top from applying foundation drunk. Dents in the padding of my bra where inquiring hands poked and said “My goodness, they’ve grown!”. You can still smell the vodka on my jeans where I spilt it, trying to down three measures diluted with one measure of orange. The top stinks of perfume from air kissing, bringing in close the people I hadn’t seen in over a year. All these seventeen year old girls in one room can’t be good. The hormones were insane. The perfume was worse: everyone wearing a different one and coming together in close quarters to ensure that by the end of the night we all smell like we’ve been in the dressing room of a stripper. I’ve got purple stains all over my top: toasting with full pint glasses of cider and black whilst dancing. Laughing and comparing French teachers. A couple of ash stains on my shoes from when we stopped to smoke and discuss the last two years without each other. Even my skin and hair didn’t survive the barrage of smells and sights: a small cigarette burn from the Krazyhouse, marks up my body from unwelcome fingers.
A good night is not measured by how wrecked you are, but by how wrecked your clothes are the next day.
You can tell when you look at my outfit. There’s a map of stains and smells that show just how good a night I had. Make up on the neckline of my top from applying foundation drunk. Dents in the padding of my bra where inquiring hands poked and said “My goodness, they’ve grown!”. You can still smell the vodka on my jeans where I spilt it, trying to down three measures diluted with one measure of orange. The top stinks of perfume from air kissing, bringing in close the people I hadn’t seen in over a year. All these seventeen year old girls in one room can’t be good. The hormones were insane. The perfume was worse: everyone wearing a different one and coming together in close quarters to ensure that by the end of the night we all smell like we’ve been in the dressing room of a stripper. I’ve got purple stains all over my top: toasting with full pint glasses of cider and black whilst dancing. Laughing and comparing French teachers. A couple of ash stains on my shoes from when we stopped to smoke and discuss the last two years without each other. Even my skin and hair didn’t survive the barrage of smells and sights: a small cigarette burn from the Krazyhouse, marks up my body from unwelcome fingers.
A good night is not measured by how wrecked you are, but by how wrecked your clothes are the next day.
# posted by Ally : 10:17 AM
