That’s right, love is no longer the battlefield. The physical pain of clubbing, in my books, has over taken the wounds of love. Yes, love hurts, but has love ever kicked you in the foot while wearing ten shot heels? Has love ever elbowed you in the tit or punched you in the face? Poked an eye out? (Note: If you answered yes to any of the above, there are some issues in your love life). And these don’t even include the bruises you cause yourself by falling over or walking into walls (guilty!).
On Saturday night, I emerged from the club at 3.50am with what can only be described as battle scars. My foot was swollen, because someone had kicked me so hard the nail polish had come off my big toe. My foot was swollen in my ridiculous shoes, but I am a trooper and refuse to take off my heels and walk the streets of Kings Cross barefoot. My shin was starting to bruise from multiple cups that had been launched shin height across the dance floor. How? I don’t even understand how this had happened.
Not to favour the lower body, I’d also had a finger to the eye while dancing, and elbow to the tit by an overenthusiastic dancer and an elbow to the back by their overenthusiastic friend. I’d even received a punch to the face while walking through the edge of the dance floor to the bathroom.
Inspecting my reflection in the completely mirrored bathroom, I was horrified to see that one side of hair remained perfectly curled and the other side was completely straight. Earlier, I’d had a drink spilled down my arm, not realising the spill had started in my hair. No amount of hairspray could armour the sticky mess that was one side of my head.
Instead of walking out of the club looking as gorgeous and made up as I had when I’d walked in only a couple of hours before, I walked out looking like a hot mess who can’t walk in her heels and who had been crying and spilling drinks on herself. In actual fact, I was half blind in one eye and the survivor of clubbing warfare who was too proud to allow her feet on the Kings Cross pavement. No blood was lost on this night, but a lot of profanities escaped my mouth as I partied on through the pain on a typical Saturday night in the Cross.
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