I came to work this morning wearing the same gold and white mini dress that I wore to the club opening last night.

My roommate Vic, Sabbie, and I went to the opening party of Club Runway. Do club owners deliberately pick the cheesiest name in order to attract more men with gelled hair and girls with fake tans? My favorite part of the club was the entrance. They actually had a white tent and red carpet full of photographers that didn’t take any pictures of us plebes. I think one photographer did. He probably works for the Queens Chronicle.

My one celebrity sighting was Ashley Simpson. Supposedly Lindsay Lohan was hosting the event but I didn’t see her. I literally could not see people in my champagne haze. There were more short men per capita than Sabbie could handle. She was the tallest person there.

And there was an actual runway in the middle of the club which featured two “dancers” in booty shorts. The bouncer yelled at me because I kept sitting on the runway and refused to get off. The dancer actually asked me to get off because I was getting in the way of her “dancing”. Look, if you’re not doing Justin Timberlake choreography then you don’t need a whole runway to yourself!

We ran into this guy we shared a Hamptons house with two years ago. I went up to him and asked if he remembered me and he gave me this puzzled look and said, “I didn’t recognize you without your bathing suit on.”

I should probably mention that his neck is thicker than a tire.

The rest of the night is pretty blurry. I checked my call and text log this morning to make sure that I didn’t make any embarrassing digital communication. I got 28 missed calls from Sabbie and two frantic messages saying, “Pick up your phone god damnit I want to make sure you got home okay!”

And I sent a text to Vic asking “Where are we?”

I also got a text from The Southerner saying “I”m sure you’re in bed by now ready to write about free trade.”

Oh, if he only knew.