Girl Friday

It was a GOOD life. Hanging out with friends every Friday night. Start at Happy Hour in downtown, midtown, uptown, galleria, any where really. We would adjourn ourselves to the new place that supposed to be chill, or go to the old that we knew was. After about 6 to 8 hours of cocktails, we would call it a night, go to our respective homes, and if you were me, lay in bed thinking "I really don't want to throw up, I can't wait till next Friday, I am so glad that I didn’t do that lasssst shot.", and fade to black.
I would get a thrill every time we walked in a place. We would throw our shoulders back, raise our heads and work those hips as we moved in the door, letting everyone there know how much better we looked, how much thinner we were, how much nicer our boobs looked in our shirts, and why they really should have thought twice about coming out tonight looking like that. The dj would play us our own personal theme music as we would walk on beat, our heels stomping with the bass, looking for somewhere to sit after making a round to check everyone out and completely ignore them all at the same time. They have no idea what they are doing, those amateurs. "Look at his shirt", "she is straight trippin with that empire dress, what is she 4 months?", "for real? are they for real? FLIP FLOPS?", and my personal favorite, "that girl is a hot as* mess". LOL.
These times were a good time in my life, a sweet and fun time filled with feeling young and fabulous. They were totally hedonistic, the "I do what I want" phase that was so deliciously ours to enjoy and we ate every delectable bite, (not really, this was also the "food is for dumb people" stage for us). We would writhe to some awkward dance rhythm that the alcohol made us brave enough to attempt, or drop down low and sweep the flo with it when the alcohol made us believe that our hamstrings and quads were stable enough to attempt to get back up in 5 inch heels once the song was over. The alcohol would dare us to get on benches and tables, in dj booths and on stage. Once the alcohol enveloped us in hot sweaty liquid courage we would grasp and tug and shimmy and move to the not necessarily the beat, but maybe just the idea of the beat. It's funny how alcohol makes you simple yet oh so very existential at the same time. We would be lulled into this wonderful place where your on version of unbridled happiness exuded from ever pore and atom and left you feeling the need to kiss a strange boy, or talk to very busted looking people. Strange hands too high up on your thighs, having someone whisper so closely in your ear they are licking it, skirts riding up, shirts falling down, shoes coming off, all part of the territory and completely and thoroughly amazing. The end of this era was the furthest thing from my mind.