You hear them before you see them. Some high pitched laughter, some gargled yelps, a few shouts. They’re getting closer.
You see it next, a pack of them huddled close, turning the corner, edging towards the finish line.
They’re a mob of colors and heels and limbs and excitement. They collectively smell like the inside of a pink lemonade Burnett’s bottle. You see that one in the middle? The one wearing the tiara and divvying up her body weight to the girl on either side? You better bet it’s her birthday.
The betches are going out. And one of ‘em is turning 21.
But observe carefully. This jumbled mess of madness is on a tight schedule.
11:59p.m. Birthday betch’s friends cut the already formed line and assume that “it’s her birthday!!!!!!!” will subdue the anger of the impatient line-waiters that are being cut by a group of college kids. After fighting their way to the front of the line, birthday betch shoves a licence in front of the bouncer’s face and yells “ I’M TWENTY ONE NOW, WOOOOO” before weakly throwing a celebratory arm up in a breakfast-club-style punch. Despite his best wishes, the bouncer lets her in and mumbles a bitter “happy birthday” under his breath. It’s one of the most popular NYC bars for people in their twenties, so he’s seen this before.
12:05 a.m. The betches are in, but two have been left behind. They cracked under the pressure, and forgot the year of their high school graduation according to their Connecticut fake ID. They retreat back to their home base, defeated and experiencing extreme FOMO, to see how the girl-that-didn’t-make-it-out-of-the-pregame is doing.
12:07 a.m. A large quantity of tequila shots are taken by all. The responsible friend takes a look at the bill and thanks her lucky stars that they did a BYOB paint class through Vimbly earlier to cut down on needed drink purchases. This is repeated 3-4 times in the next 30 minutes.
12:45 a.m. Birthday betch’s best friend throws up in the bathroom. She plays it cool though, only 6 of her closest friends find out. And better yet, only one out of the six posted it to their SnapStory.
1:00 a.m. Birthday betch asks the DJ if she can take a turn, and to her surprise he agrees. She puts on her favorite song which is Blank Space by Taylor Swift — “It really gets the people going,” she justifies.
1:05 a.m. Birthday betch puts on Blank Space by Taylor Swift (again) and gets booed off the stage.
“Oh my God, but it’s her BIRTHDAY” is heard above the boo’s from Kendra, the birthday betch’s main betch.
1:45 a.m. Things begin to go downhill. Birthday betch’s eyes are looking dangerously squinty, and her legs have begun to resemble limp noodles. Every word is gargled and she’s developed a new lisp that her friends are 87% sure she didn’t have before. She’s deteriorating quickly — no one knows how much time she has left.
1:50 a.m. It all happens so fast. One minute the birthday betch is standing tall, but the next minute a heel slips and she’s cascading down towards the bar floor, hair flying, vodka cranberry spilling, palms reaching out for support. Her friends notice too late, diving to catch her fall just after her manicured hands slide along the glossy, beer-coated tiles.
She’s down. But not for long. Milliseconds later there are sets of hands helping her up and heads nodding in agreement as she states “I just slipped on a patch of water, I’m not that drunk.”
1:53 a.m. The angry bouncer in a black hoodie comes over and firmly suggests it is time for the birthday betch to make her way home. The birthday crew will reflect in the morning on what a vital role the bouncer played in their night. He shuts the celebration down just before it goes haywire. Not all heroes wear capes.
2:10 a.m. The basic betches are home, the dominos has been ordered, and the heels have been removed. But before everyone’s favorite drunk pizza can arrive, birthday betch begins to nod off, exhausted from a night of reaching legality.
As her eyes shut to enter a deep, 21-year-old sleep, she inhales, and with every last ounce of her being, croaks, “I can’t wait for brunch in the morning.”