If you’ve ever been to Bardstown Road after 9pm, you’ve probably seen the Pool Party Express. It’s an old, hollowed out fire truck that carries drunk people up and down the street, playing loud music, like a parade float or an open-air party bus. Counter-intuitively, there is no water involved. Kari booked the PPE for this weekend (she turned 23 yesterday) but canceled at the last minute, deciding instead to spend her birthday bar hopping in a more traditional mode of transportation—that being hooker heels.

We met at Baxter Station for dinner with the plan to progress from there. At dinner was Kari (of course), Ann, and a coupled pair of Karina’s friends from Vassar, Sam and Hannah. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I really like Ann. We sat across from each other, splitting a bowl of mussels, exchanging sarcastic remarks, and generally having an all-around good time. I think we were cut from the same sense of humor cloth, and when ridiculous shit went down that night, I’d look up to scope the room for knowing glances and often find Ann doing the same.

After Baxter Station, we condensed cars and parked behind Wicks to begin the trek. The first bar we went to had criminally cheap drinks, but was incredibly shady and smelled like feet. They had a few of those floor-drying fans that I haven’t seen since Minnesota lying around, so I’d imagine they had some sort of leakage/floodage problem in the not too distant past. Gross. The music was too loud to talk (when we first arrived, Karina actually had the balls to ask the DJ to turn down the volume. We couldn’t hear the conversation that transpired between them, but his bemused expression said enough.) so we ventured towards the back of the bar to see if we could find some sort of outdoor seating. We came to a dark, deserted bend in the hallway and someone other than myself made the brave and ultimately wise decision to continue down it. (“Are there going to be strippers back there?” “God, I hope so… “) At the end of the rape hallway was a pair of doors leading to an empty, fenced-in concrete patio next to some dumpsters, between the back of Cherry Bomb and the parking lot. We sat for awhile, no one really enjoying themselves, while Karina asked about everyone’s “sun signs.” (“Ohh, a virgo. You’ve really got your shit together. Virgos are really organized and practical.” “I’m not like that at all.” “Well, not really like that, but I can definitely see you being a Virgo. You’re definitely a total Virgo.” “Uh-huh.”)

From the shady foot-bar, we went across the street to Wicks, cramming too many people into one booth. Karina had suggested I get plastered, abandon my car, and spend the night at her (mother’s) house, but I’d already decided I’d sacrifice my inebriation in order to sleep in my own bed, and drive my own car home. Karina and Ann both had potential hook-ups lined up for the evening, and I had no desire to cock-block either of them by being the fifth wheel, or to sleep on the couch at her mom’s house, for that matter. So despite my promise to get drunk and talk about “high-falutin’” things with Ann, I stayed depressingly, soul-crushingly not-drunk all night. “Are you still sober?” Ann asked me later on. “Like a heart-attack,” I was forced to reply.

In regards to boys, Karina had high hopes for my outfit, but—inevitably—it was for naught. In anticipation of the Pool Party Express, I’d painted my nails Fuck-Me Barbie pink and was wearing a little black dress and fuck-me heels. I hate to ruin the suspense, but despite all the fuck-me foreshadowing in the previous sentence, there was zero fucking to be had. Not that I’d take somebody home mere hours after meeting them anyway (what kind of girl do you take me for?), but I just want to stress how limited my options were. Maybe I’m too picky, maybe I was too sober, but the whole prospect of meeting-a-guy-at-the-bar was more unappealing than usual on Saturday night. Like opera, I feel like you have to let go of a certain amount of self-awareness in order to enjoy perusing the meat market at bars. And there’s nothing like soul-crushing sobriety to really drive that self-awareness home. The gloomy realization came when we were packed into the booth at Wicks. From left to right there was: Andrew, friend of Ann and Karina that we’d picked up along the journey, who was clearly hoping to give Karina a ride home—if ya know what I’m sayin’—so he was out; Sam, Hannah’s boyfriend and clearly not an option; and Aaron, some random friend of Sam’s that stuck around all of 30 minutes. There were others that came and went, but none made enough of an impression that I even remembered their names. And I’m good at names.

After Wick’s, Ann split off our group to join another collection of friends across the bar (“call me later, when you’re still having a bad time.”) and Karina, SamHannah, Andrew and I went to Akikos for some shitty 3am karaoke. It was pretty much as billed, and we called it a night soon after that. SamHannah walked back to their Highlands apartment, Andrew never did get to give Karina a ride home, and after listening to Karina’s tipsy chattering until almost 4, I dropped her off and then drove myself back to my quiet apartment across town. I fed the cat, washed my face, slipped out of my little-black-dress, and crawled under the covers, positioning myself in the direct middle of my queen-sized bed and smugly spreading my arms and legs as far out to the corners of the mattress as I could manage.