For those that know me, it’s safe to say I’m a party girl. Though to be honest, I will refute that undeniably and blame it on the fact that I’m single. But… at the end of the day, yeahhhh I probably am a party girl. I bloody love having a good time. I’m an introvert extrovert, which if you’ve ever come across one, they are just fucking weird. We don’t make any sense. We are the quiet ones that are talking all the time. It takes me awhile to get to know people, but I swear an afternoon out and we’ll be best friends before that 5th espresso martini. In fact alcohol is a big crutch of mine. I tried to give up, but who am I kidding it’s my social lubricant.
All of my friends know that they can call me and provided my bank will cooperate I’ll most likely be there in about 15 minutes. I never go out to pick up dudes though, it’s not my style. I’m still sitting in the corner trying to make sexy eyes with someone that not only isn’t interested but really believes that I may have had some kind of stroke. If I actually try to wink, it really does look like I’m having a stroke. Not that I think winking is in, but it’d be nice to pull it off. I will only step onto the dancefloor with a beer or a vodka in my hand as its part of my dance routine and I honestly know none of the right words, but absolutely will own the shit out of that chorus.
I’m 32 right, so I’ve been hitting the town for 14 years now. I know what I am doing. You could say I’m old hat at it. But for some reason that does not mean I have learnt my lesson. One night after an epic night out at the Sheaf in Double Bay waking up thinking we’d had the greatest night alive, I checked my paypal the next morning to realise that somehow that bullshit paywave had made me spend $400. $400 fucking dollars on a few shots and god knows beers for who. When it comes to a big night out somehow I turn into Mariah Carey thinking I’ve got 250 grand to just swan around burning wedding dresses and ordering drinks for anyone I might come across. I then will need to live on spaghetti bolognaise for the next three weeks or whatever shit I can whip up for a budget of $30 a week because I spent money I don’t even have.
I’m also known to be in the vicinity of a kebab and chips when I’m 30 vodkas deep- (though to be honest I actually drink beer or bourbon and coke but I don’t want to seem too bogan). On two occasions in the last 12 months I have ashamedly woken up with a kebab in bed with me. Not a man. Nope, completely untouched kebabs. One night I woke up with pajama pants on, but no top, snuggled under the covers, clearly with the intention of eating my kebab in bed but thinking ‘fuck it’ by the time I’ve managed to crawl into my bed.
What’s ironic, as a party girl, I don’t actually even party. I sit my ass down on a picnic table at good local bar with my friends and we drink until – like one time I actually fall asleep at a bar. That’s actually happened twice now. I blame my breakfast radio hours, but really, I’m not sure who I am kidding as a big part of that is the 30 drinks possibly. Maybe. My point is I don’t even dance, heck no girl that’s too hard. I like to party it up big time sitting down on a sweet stool until at least 1am when I might get a little courage to get up for a boogie before I complain about my heels and phantom into a taxi.
How do I you think I should even put any of this into my Tinder profile? Single white female, seeking fun drunk that likes to get wasted on the weekends but no clubs, kebabs, endless bank balance and an Uber account a must. What a catch right?
For more of Krystal http://memoirsofatragicsingle.weebly.com/party-girl