The Night Out List...

    Not everyone has one of these, but this is one of my regular lists. The Night Out list! This list is a must have if your a female who likes to make themselves look like a shiny new tree ornament before going out to attract some male attention.  

• Hair appointment
• Tan
• Outfit
• Shoes
• Nail appointment
• Shape up nickers ( Bridgette Jones's )

and so on...
   This is the list that grows. First it starts with times of appointment, places to meet your mates and that's where the night out list stops and the shopping list starts. You realize you have no costume jewelry to match the new dress or shoes you bought, your nail varnish has turned into a congealed clot at the bottom of the varnish pot so you need a replacement, then you need wine and refreshments while you get ready, so you go shopping. 
   Although you have this list, you didn't get the memo from God about all the problems that face you during your night out.
   
The Night Out
    You make all your appointments in time, your looking your best, feeling confident and excited about the night ahead. Your friends all meet you where they are supposed to and that's when you start to drink, gossip, dance and eye up the talent in the club.
   You get tipsy and as the night goes on you forget who you are and become (in your mind) the worlds best supermodel! You enter the toilet to get rid of the copious amounts of alcohol you've drank and stored in your bladder. Upon leaving the toilet cubicle with your skirt/dress tucked in your Bridgette Jones's (which used to be white but have turned grey in a dark wash) and tissue stuck to the bottom of your shoe, you realize you need to re-apply your lipstick and eyeliner. Your brain tells your hand to colour the whole of your eyelid in with your eyeliner and put your lippy on trying hard to stay in the lines like a 4 year old. For obvious reasons all your efforts don't pay off and you walk out the toilet and back to the dance floor looking like Heath Ledger's Joker. 
      People walk over and tell you about the tissue trailing behind your every step, but fail to tell you about your wardrobe malfunction or makeup looking like it was flung at your face by a monkey while trapped in the enclosure at a zoo, so you carry on walking round looking like you've been dragged through a jungle backwards.
   You take loads of pictures like your the paparazzi to document your night out in case you suffer a blackout from alcohol poisoning the next day. You leave the club then you drag yourself in a taxi while shoving a garlic mayo Donner Kebab down your throat and start dozing off with your face planted firmly inside the flaps of the pitta bread. You then get woken up to a £30 taxi fare, when its normally £10, and your skirts over your head because the taxi took you up a road with loads of speed bumps and you've been knocked about the cab like you've been in the ring with Mike Tyson.