The formal, the party, and the drama that followed

Once upon a time, I invited a friend to my res formal. She accepted, and as all girls do, we chatted, plotted, and planned our outfits to the very last detail. Safe to say, I was quite excited about the whole thing. Now, due to certain, uhm, circumstances, I had to cancel that date.

 Another good friend came to see me a few days later with a dilemma. You see, said friend had been running concurrent interests in two young ladies. Or maybe 'ladies' is not an entirely appropriate term... Now I was tasked with helping him decide which one of those ,uh, women he should take to the formal. Poor boy was caught between a nun and a hoe (his words, not mine). After much careful deliberation, we (and by 'we', I mean 'I') decided to lose those girls, and go together.

Simple, really, except for the part where I wasn't sure what to tell my now former potential date, since she and I had kinda made other plans. Briefly considered lying to her, but that lie would need supporting evidence (also in the form of lies), and in the end the truth would be buried in a stinky compost heap of half-truths that quite frankly requires way more brain power than what I was willing to engage on the matter. So, honesty's actually just the lazy girl's way out...  

The formal was held at a swanky hotel in Camps Bay, and everyone was dressed like a movie star (red carpet faux pas included). Yours truly was in floor-length red number that was chosen (in part) by an Irish lad who liked me, then fell off the face of the earth shortly after I'd made the purchase. Great taste in clothes, dodgy dating tactics (him, not me).

The evening was splendid, with my date and I both winning awards . He won "Mr Muscle", and I "Miss Weave 2010" (I'd like to thank all the horses that selflessly sacrificed their tails to keep my hair in pretty styles...). The DJ was a flop, though, so we decided to have an after party in town.

Got to the club with four guys, so I was feeling a bit too testosteroned. Genius that I am, I grabbed the prettiest, blondest, blue-eyed girl within reaching distance, and invited her to party with us. So round after round was bought, til she buckled, and disappeared into the night. Probably had a few cats to park, poor thing. The rest of us soldiered on, and it wasn't long before I found another accomplice. Note to self: medics are extremely light-headed. If she says she's sober, she'll be slurring her words after two little shots. Sissy! So yet again, I was on to the next one.

And the third time lucky was a gem. This girl shook what her mama gave her til the DJ's decks stopped spinning. And she didn't even flinch the fifth time I said,  "One last round!". Such a trooper. It got a little sticky when my fake boyfriend (to keep pesky buggers away) found a girl he liked, and started chatting her up. My new BFF got pissed off on my behalf, and I didn't have the heart to tell her it was all make-believe. 

Her: "Your boyfriend is a loser!"

Me:  "Don't mind him, he's just drunk. Let's dance."

Her: "But he's giving that ugly girl his number!!"

Me:  "He's just trying to make me jealous. Really, just ignore him."

Her:  "But why do you stay with him?? He's such a jerk!"

By now my throat was scratchy and my ears ringing from all the shouting we had to do to hear each other above the thumping bass. So I readied my throat one last time, to utter my trusty escape sentence:

"One more round!"

to be continued...