The fierce jezebel look still works, but so does the drunken Casanova.

So l week I spoke about faking it. The ‘it’ being confidence, not orgasms. And while I preached like a know-it-all Jehovahs witness (so basically just a Jehovahs witness) about how to keep your cool with men, I’ve actually found a much better way…

It starts with limiting your food intake (to mere 600 calories, give or take), and then getting drunk. Really drunk. The next step is to repeat this for a second day. I should pre-warn that during these first two nights out, you WILL make a fool of yourself. Quite badly. In a way that its safe to say you can leave your jester hat and curl toe belled shoes at home and everyone will still think you’re the village idiot. The possibilities include; dutty wining while on the escalators of Picadilly Circus tube, making it extremely clear to the hot DJ that you fancy the ass of him, being laughed at by forty year old queens for booty-bouncing, falling arse over tit onto tables and smashing glasses, and talking the ear off your arch nemesis who is evidentially now your best friend.
I’m not really sure what put the DJ off, if it was the wet look batty riders (fierce jezebel attire: as previously discussed) or the fact that even my pores were leaking 30% proof? As for the old queens, they were obviously JEAL that we weren’t pussy poppin on their shrivelled dicks, right?

The good news, however, is that by the time you reach the third night, you’re officially maxed out on the embarrassment scale. To the point of; the only way is up. By this third night drinking (consuming more alcoholic units than minutes sleep) in between Barclays bike rides and uni lectures I was a giggling mess. Not only that… but I didn’t care. If people wanted to laugh at me, I was laughing with them and showing them how much fun I was having without giving a shit. It was exhilarating. And my confidence was through the roof. At the start of the night I hated my clashing outfit and thought I had prominent moobs, but come 1am I loved my mis-match style and thought I had the best pecks south side of the river. Cut to me telling boys that they weren’t ready for my jelly and batting my eyelids more violently than a moth hitting a lightbulb – putting Casanova to PURE shame! If casanova was gay and wrote a dating blog, that is. Who knew I had a Romeo inside of me?! And at this rate who’d I’d be inside of later.

So third night = confident. Fourth = Super confident right? Not quite.
The fourth night (with even less sleep on the third night than there was on the second) still gets you tipsy and flirtatious, but as the night carries on (Carrie being the operative word) it turns into a bit of a massacre. Ie; screaming at your sister for indirecting a cab (what did I expect?! She was only female).
So dare I even contemplate a fifth night?! Sure, why not?
The fifth night of drinking although still gives you more confidence than originally – doesn’t end well. It ends with you falling down the stairs and breaking your spirit as well as your stiletto heel. It ends with you so demotivated in life, you want to quit everything you’ve been working towards and retire to your bed for life. It ends with you crying in a taxi after alienating yourself from all your friends. And by the sixth day you can’t even look in an empty cupboard without crying over the fact there’s nothing ready-to eat. And God forbid leaving the house.
So my reccomendations; do the drinking every night for a week, once. Don’t do it again.
I had fun, but I’m officially too depressed to talk to anyone for at least another week. My ego (as well as my ankle) is totally bruised and I’m the size of a wooly mammoth after committing carbicide from alcohol abuse. Seriously… When I finally went back to work, a guy on the train actually tried to harpoon me.
On the plus side, that confidence I showed on the third night, had nothing but good comebacks. Boys paying me more attention, generally feeling good about myself and showing I can make a move on boys without being rejected. Making the first move isn’t the end of the world. In fact, it’s just the start…