Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,10

low standards. Better odds are to post up near the table of people screaming in one another’s faces the loudest and having the most visible fun, because there’s likely some cooler place with some hotter people that they have to get to so they’ll be leaving this one we found on our way in any minute now.

I know better. This is as good as it’s gonna get, because it’s at the only place I’m gonna go. Sure, the newest Bears draft pick is at this more exclusive spot I saw on a person’s Instagram, but even if I wanted to go there I would have to chase the bartender down to close my tab, get my coat out of coat check, feel bad because I don’t have paper money to tip the coat check attendant, be COLD and OUTSIDE again, then take my chances getting in somewhere else, only to circle another corner booth like a desperate vulture waiting for a seat that hopefully nobody barfed in. We’re staying.

10:42 p.m.: oh shit.

Those assholes finally left!!!!!!

*knocks half-empty vodka soda glasses onto the floor before sprawling across table*

11:05 p.m.: this music is too loud.

I’M SORRY, WHAT????

11:06 p.m.: i mean.

WAIT, WHAT DID YOU SAY??

11:07 p.m.: i just.

WHO? DID I SEE WHO????? I CAN’T.

11:08 p.m.: bitch, what?

WHISKEY. WHISKEY! YES, JUST GET ME ANY KIND THEY HAVE, IT DOESN’T—

11:15 p.m.: was i ever this young and tolerant?

I ordered a whiskey because you can take the tiniest, most imperceptible sip in front of your friends to prove you aren’t a party pooper and then set that shit down somewhere when they aren’t looking and switch to water for the rest of the goddamn night without these bitches hassling you. “Yeah, I’m partying! I’m having fun! I mean, sure, I’m drinking this eight-dollar Aquafina now, but remember when I had that Jameson?” If you get a High Life, you have to drink the whole damn thing, and even then people will be nudging the next two into your hands before you can catch your breath. The dope shit about being forty at the club is that you and your friends are old enough to have credit cards to open tabs with, but the thing that sucks about that is your body can no longer handle the aftereffects of those seemingly unlimited drinks! I love to hand my credit-building, secured Indigo MasterCard to a man with a mustache and a leather bar apron and wave in the general direction of the four people I came with. That is an incredibly powerful feeling. But if I have more than half a beer and two wines, girl, I gotta go sit down somewhere. This is why I love a lounge, because you can sink into a plush banquette in the corner and not move your sloshing stomach around.

11:35 p.m.: oh my goddddd, are you roxane gay??!!??!?!!!?!?!!??!

Yes, I am, sweetie. Get on in here and let’s take this selfie!!

12:15 a.m.: it’s officially the next day.

This is an accomplishment. I was never really a get-home-at-sunrise kind of guy; the minute the sky turns to slate, which is darker than dawn but lighter than dusk and right before the sun starts coming up and you can see how horribly your lipstick aged throughout the night any time your horrifying visage flashes across a reflective surface, despair sets in. And what’s left of the day feels like it’s already lost. What can I reasonably expect to accomplish if I’m going to bed at 7 a.m.? But, for a fleeting moment, hitting midnight is a great fucking feeling: I’m not at home in bed in a sweatshirt, under the covers with a package of Oreos, but it’s also not so late that I feel like I’m going to die.

12:55 a.m.: i’m ready to go.

At this point in the evening, the liquor fairy alights gently upon my shoulder and coos sweetly in my ear, “BITCH, YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO PARTY LIKE THIS,” and the gears in my brain slowly grind into motion, trying to recall exactly how many drinks I’ve had, and how much those drinks cost apiece, and whether or not anyone would notice if I tried to squeeze myself out of the tiny bathroom window