50 Shades of One Hot Mess

All the single ladies: getting ready for the big party is a colossal waste of time. Especially if you think you’re going to get laid. Why? Because all that hard work and effort is going to be undone with your very first shot of Patron.

But you won’t listen, will you. Even though it really doesn’t matter, you’re in the shower after an insane 2-hour boot camp that would make several members of Team 6 want to puke. Now, shave the legs. Shave the pits. Exfoliate. Wax on, wax off. Shampoo. Condition. Hot Oil treatment. Deep cleansing gel. Facial wash. Then it’s moisturize. Brush. Floss. Gargle. Apply foundation. Powder. Deodorant. You haven’t dried your hair yet and you’re still naked at this point, while everyone else is eating dinner. And it doesn’t help matters that satanic marketers feature yet another “must-have” beauty product in Anorexic Monthly magazine like fucking spray-on foundation for LEGS or lightening cream for armpits. Go get it and put it ON.

With this grueling regimen, you’ve worked up quite an appetite. Too bad you can only eat things that have no carbs or sugar, such as water, or air. Cuz the dress don’t lie and the Spanx won’t sag so SUCK IT UP.

Ta-da! Now we have a “hottie” who’s dizzy from malnutrition and possibly high on hairspray. Whatever. Get out there and TWERK!

“Heeey!” The drunk guys in t-shirts covered in beer and vodka kool-aid exclaim. “You lookin’ guuud, girl!” They smile and stumble over to grab your ass and nearly fall into the nearby cooler, or accidentally walk into the glass patio door. This happens several times with several guys, in rapid succession. You’re starting to get annoyed. You paid $750 of laser hair removal for this?

So, fuck it. Have a shot. Or three. Whoo! having no food in your system makes you a cheap date. Suddenly the drunk dudes lighting their farts on fire are the funniest, smartest, most interesting men you have ever met. And it only gets better. As the night progresses all your handiwork, your hours of preparation, will vanish into the bottom of a dirty red Dixie cup during “Beer Pong.” Which of course, you will lose. Which means you giggle, snort, and conveniently fall into drunk t-shirt-stained dude. WIN!

OK wait, I forgot to mention: there will be a moment, a precious, fleeting moment, in which all your efforts of beauty and feminine mystique will not go unnoticed. You will wake up, usually about 5 or 6:30AM. You will stumble from drunk dude’s bedroom into his filthy bathroom. You will squint into the mirror. Despite the smeared, horrific, Cy-Twombly-esque image before you, you will squeal out, “Whoa! I look really, really good!” And you will pout and pose and preen in front of the mirror for a few blessed moments. Because, dear petal, you are still completely shitfaced and nicely jacked up on Seratonin thanks to your recent roll in the hay. (You’re also partially blinded by fake eyelash glue.) Yes, you are completely delusional.

But, ever fear! You will go back to bed and wake up a few hours later, all traces of euphoria and triumph removed, replaced with a sledgehammer of a headache and that vague, uneasy sense of creeping horror and crushing guilt, as you try to desperately remember if you did something really stupid, like flash your tits at the pizza delivery guy or killed your friend’s cat.

There is a entire sub-genre of hot mess-ology, entitled “getting ready/putting makeup on while drunk” which is nicely handled here.In my humble opinion, it’s a helluva lot more fun.

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