A night in the life of two dysfunctional girls:

7PM: My flatmate messages me and asks if I want to have a chill wine and movie night. I think this sounds fabulous, as I haven’t slept much the last few nights. It’s like Netflix and Chill, but with my best friend. This means she’ll sit next to me regardless of how hairy my legs are or how covered in Dorito dust I may be.

8:30PM: I shuffle into the living room, pad thai take-away in hand, wearing my sexiest plaid pajamas and fluffy slippers. My flatmate saunters in with a full face of makeup, wearing skinny-ass jeans and tall-ass heels. Something is amiss. I ask her where she has come from? She says: “Whaaaaaaaat?” Bitch deceived me and is playing with my emotions.

8:33PM: My flatmate pours an entire bottle of wine into a glass and hands it to me. Some of it spills. “Have you already been drinking?” I ask. She said: “Whaaaaaaaat?” Bitch deceived me and is playing with my emotions.

8:34PM: I start to drink. Unlike our usual 5-pound wine, this taste like the nectar of a sweet flower, or the cum of Zeus.

9:00PM: I finish my first bottle of wine. My flatmate’s feelin pretty fresh, and her morals are loosening. She calls up two tinder dates and accidentally butt-dials her brother. In case you were wondering, he doesn’t want to meet us for a cheeky cock-tail.

9:15PM: I put on a bra. It’s clear our wine and movie night is but a myth of the past.

9:25PM: Phone calls have been made. Tinder dates have been sorted. Sobriety has been long- obliterated. For some reason there’s now shattered glass in our living room. Our neighbor asks us to keep it down so her daughter’s book-club can meet, we say “bleep that” and hit the town.

9:37PM: My foot gets caught on a damn cobblestone. I fall down on Market street, destroying my phone screen and whatever’s left of my dignity.

9:40PM: I pick myself up whilst my flatmate takes demeaning snapchats. We head into Sainsbury’s for some much needed chocolate cookies.

10:00PM: We make it to the Union. No worries, I’ve smuggled the cookies in.

10:05PM: “Why is it empty?” “Shut up and drink this Pablo.” The quotes aren’t identified, as this dialogue is interchangeable.

10:35PM: The music starts pumping, the drinks are flowing, we’re feeling fabulous. I start to dance (read: flail) on the dance floor, and my flatmate quickly ditches me. She’s promised to keep an eye on me in case I drink too much, but that becomes a thing of the past when I try to start a conga line with the DJ, security guard, and one post-grad student that are in main-bar.

11:15PM: The dancefloor is now packed. I’m dancing with a hot Masters student. We’re comparing facial piercings and spilling most of our drink on the ground.

11:45PM: I get a call. I have to leave because my flatmate has been forcibly removed from the establishment after trying to re-enter with her chicken nuggets. When the security guard suggested that this is frowned upon, she pelted him with a chip while screaming “Suck on this.” Ill advised.

Midnight: We’re lost, which is sad considering we live on the same street as the Union. In a moment of desperation my flatmate pees behind a trashcan. Where are we? How did we get here?

12:15AM: Alas we spot a hipster establishment that we frequent: Nandos. Hope is restored.

12:30AM: We arrive home. While I put our coats away, my flatmate finishes off yet another bottle of wine.

12:42AM: My flatmate asks me to snuggle with her. I mention that it’s sad we’re so messy at midnight. I look to her for a response- she’s asleep.

We wake up the next day and brunch, and there you have “Cheeky Tuesday”.