So the new school year is in full swing, and with the new year, comes a plethora of parties, visits to the bar, and other opportunities when you want to look decked out and aim to attract mad dudes. Getting ready to go out is a craft that we continue to master each and every weekend. It takes time, patience, plenty of bronzer, and even a little booze. Just like you boys have t-shirt time, we have our very own special, and ridiculously long routine to look lovely. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:
Time to Get Ready to Hit the Town Timeline
5:30 pm – Talk with the rest of the skank soldiers in your platoon at dinner and devise the battle plan. Which bars, which boys, and what booze to pregame with. Sutter Home, slap cup, and hair straightening are all included in said plan.
6:00 pm – Return to dorm. Attempt doing homework. Pass out due to exhaustion from previous nights partying.
6:30 pm – Sleep through alarm.
6:45 pm – Throw ringing phone under bed.
7:30 pm – Wake up. Feel for phone. Check time. JUMP OUTTA BED. You’re already ½ hour late to begin getting ready.
7:31 pm – Run into shower. Shit, water is freezing. Other roommate used all the hot water getting wet and wild in the shower with her ugly-ass boyfriend. Swear under your breath.
7:34 pm – Shower temperature turns from arctic to bearable. Shampoo, shave, and sing some Wham while getting clean.
7:36 pm – Shower temperature has somehow reached boiling. Rinse hair and run out.
7:37 pm – Dry off and wrap hair into elaborate towel bun on top of head.
7:38 pm – Dress in bum clothes, aka t-shirt and shorts (basically the shirt before the shirt time, in Jersey Shore man-a-lingo)
7:40 – 8:15 pm – Turn blow dryer on and aim directly at head. Hair poofs to the perfect frizzball as you begin the process of straightening. During this time, you update facebook status to “Getting ready to get cRaZy tonight”, and tweet lyrics from LMFAO about getting schwastey pants. Solid social media decision. Totally will get your crush/hookup/ex-boyfriend’s attention. Good job, social slut.
8:20 – 8:35 pm – Open closet. Fuuuuck. As you rummage through a closet that is packed beyond maximum compacity, there is nothing to wear. Wore that last weekend, wore that dress one time at your cousins grad party two years ago and have 3 profile pictures with it on. Realize you left good jeans at Thursday night’s bootycalls apartment. Swear again.
8:36 pm – Outfit decided upon. Tits up, ass out, that’s the way you always go out.
8:37 pm – Dressed. Ask roommate how you look.
You: How is this…?
Roommate: Love it.
You: Ugh, my thighs are too fat and I look like a beached whale. I hate it.
Roommate: No! Stop! But your beautiful!
You: *Tears* DON’T LIE TO ME.
Roommate: You look the mayor of Ho-Town.
8:40 – 9:15 pm – Makeup.
More cover up.
Glitter blue shadow from lid to crease.
Use black as night shadow in the crease.
First layer of mascara.
Liquid eye liner on top extends from very inside of eye to basically almost all the way around your head.
Second layer of mascara.
Done. You make RuPaul’s Drag race look like child’s play
9:16 pm – More deodorant. Spray yourself with perfume until the people next door complain they are suffocating from the aroma.
9:16 – 9:30 pm – Continue to textually devise plan. Cab will come at 10:30. You pour yourself first glass of Carlos Rossi – cause your classy with that $6 Sangria.
9:31 pm – The rest of the bitches come over. Put on pregame music. This usually consist of Spice Girls, Drake, Rihanna, the Katy Perry, or Ke$ha. Tonight you’re feeling Ke$ha.
9:42 pm – You and the rest of the girls kill the Rossi. Time for some Pinnacle and punch. Mmmm, I taste poor decisions.
10 pm – You have verbal confirmation via a friend that stalked the current penis you are pursuing. He will be out, you will be out. The stars have aligned.
10:15 pm – Pinnacle tapped out. A beer won’t kill you.
10:20 pm – Someone’s already crying. 7 drunk girls are having a heart-to-heart in the bathroom. No, he doesn’t know what he lost!
10:30 – Cabs are here!
**TWO HOURS LATER**
Head in toilet, eye makeup resembles that of a raccoon, and you may or may not have puked on the soccer team at the bar.
What a night.