Getting ready to go out is a painful process. Here are the steps that create my nightmare every Friday and Saturday night.

1. Eat up.

This is always my biggest decision of the night. Once upon a time, I got a little too #TURNT on Smirnoff with my friends before going to a school dance. I was that idiot who didn’t eat dinner beforehand and threw up all over my best friend and some random guy’s Ugg slippers. Long story short, I will never go out drinking without eating dinner ever again. Shout out to my mother for picking my drunken ass up, and my best friend for still being my best friend today even though I used her as a trash can.

My biggest decision about dinner is always about what to eat that will still allow me to fit into my tight jeans a few hours later. Sorry Chipotle, but you are out of the question for this one. (I forgive you for that E.Coli outbreak—always a fan.) Chipotle is more of a Sunday night meal, one where I can eat a burrito to the face and only have to worry about sitting in my sweatpants and watching Netflix for the rest of the night. My safest bets are things full of carbs such as pasta, sandwiches, potatoes… you know, to soak up those Grateful Dead pitchers I will be smashing later on.

2. The shower scene.

Do I even need to shave my legs? Really though, I’m way too single for that. Wouldn't want to get my hopes up too high. Have to keep on that extra layer for the cold months that lie ahead anyways. If I do shave, I will probably cut my ankle—and that hurts more than when my seventh grade boyfriend broke up with me over AIM chat.

Look at me brushing my teeth in the shower; I'm so great at multitasking.

Wow, that buffalo chicken sandwich went straight to my stomach. Hope I can still fit into my jeans.

Better not put lotion on my legs because then my jeans DEFINITELY won’t be able to slither over my #thickthighs.

3. Sweatin' out my blowout.

I wish life was back in 2000 when I could just tie my hair up in a side ponytail with a cool colored scrunchie and call it a night. Maybe tonight I will try and make an effort to curl my hair. Sounds like a great idea in my head until I give it a whirl. First of all, the curling iron always smells like something is burning—you really expect me to put that on my hair? Yes, you bet I will. Secondly, the curling iron always burns me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but my hand always comes out of the process feeling like it has been through the gates of Hell. Third, how the f*** do they expect you to curl the back of your head? If I can’t see it, neither can you—or at least that’s what I like to tell myself. Finally, and my most favorite, is when you finally finish and realize that you missed a huge chunk. May as well go dunk my head in the toilet. And then straighten it like I was planning on in the first place.

4. Are my eyebrows #OnFleek?

I always seem to think that I can rock that Carrie Underwood smoky eye that I see on the commercials until I take a step back and notice that I look like I just got punched in the eye by some b**** who just saw me take the last pair of panties at the Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale. Scratch that, better off going with the all natural look anyways—always have to make it seem like you’re not really trying that hard. I hope my eyeliner wings match—better go ask 10 different people if they do just in case. Lipstick or no lipstick? If I wear lipstick, that means I have to keep reapplying it and risk having that awkward conversation where someone has to inform me that I have red on my teeth. No thank you. Oh lovely, I just sneezed after applying my mascara. Better just go crawl under my bead and stay there for the rest of the night.

5. Does this make me look fat?

Maybe I can try that whole 90’s look with the flannel tied around my waist. I always see those girls wearing it on Instagram and they look so effortlessly cool. Totally kidding, this makes me look like I’m wearing a kilt and it also doesn’t show off my ass, (flaunt what you got, ladies.) I’ll probably just end up wearing a black shirt with black jeans, as I do every single weekend. Black is slimming, right? Now, do I risk wearing the heels or do I stick with boots instead? Heels make me look hot, but they also make me want to cry in a corner. Heels it is. PAIN IS BEAUTY.

6. Getting drunk before we leave to go get drunk.

First and foremost, have to take some pics with my bitchez. I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing, right? Immediately have to post it on Instagram with a quote from a new trendy song, “Me and mine vs. you and yours.” Then, I have to take a selfie and send it to those guys I think are cute so that they know I’m getting tipsy and that I’m an independent woman who don’t need no man. (Secretly wishing one will text me and ask where I’m heading to… but don’t tell anyone that.) Next, SHOTS. Time to line up those glasses with Rubinoff ($12, holla) and jam to Kanye’s new album TLOP until I am drunk enough to not have to buy as many drinks at the bar, but not too drunk that I can’t make it there. Now it’s time for me to make my debut—stuff some nips in my bag and head off to run the world.