I remember when I had a fake ID, going to “da club” was something out of Sex and the City. I thought everything was so chic. I would sit on the velvet couches, sipping my cosmopolitan whilst rocking my boot cut jeans and satin “going out top,” thinking life really couldn’t get much more glamorous than this. 

It’s been 9 years to the date since I’ve retired my fake ID. And rarely does my ass ever step foot into a club because, well…

• I hate people
• I really can’t stand trying to have a conversation over blaring heinous techno (Jesus do I sound dusty and decrepit)
• I loathe douchey dudes who think an Armani Exchange button down gives them the right to grind up all on me. HARD pass. 

But when someone says to you, “hey, want to go to a brunch nightclub,” you nod your head yes, because why wouldn’t you? I feel the need to also express that I was highly intoxicated when I agreed to these plans because I loathe brunch, and see above my thoughts on nightclubs at age 29. But hey, I was visiting one of my closest friends and we were heading into New York City… when in Rome. 

Brunch in Philly, or “Sunday Funday” (by the way, that term makes me want to kick people) from what I understand, is super casual and ends at a normal hour. Again I don’t partake because I fucking hate having to choose between a burger or pancakes. And also I don’t need an excuse to drink during the day, okay? 

Brunch in NYC is, well, a beast. Little did I know I had to batten down the hatches. I walked up to this “brunch nightclub,” also known as Il Bastardo, at 4 p.m. to a bunch of sloppily drunk contoured girls in teeny tiny outfits, chain smoking, crying, and trying to balance on their 4 inch heels and failing miserably. Holy fuck balls … where was I?! 

I was greeted by the loudest music I’ve ever heard in my life, and Kardashian clones stumbling around like drunk slobs carrying bottles of champagne, BOTTLES, with straws hanging out of them. It was 4 p.m. on a Sunday, kids. And people were getting carried out of this place. At 4 p.m. On a Sunday.

After screaming to the hostess five hundred times over the DJ announcing, “WHERE MANHATTAN AT?!?!” “Party for 2 under KATE … KATE! K-A-T-E!” We were seated directly in front of the dance floor, which was glorious, because we had front row seats to this shit show. But mama needed alcohol. It was the only way I was going to survive this insanity.

Immediately two bottles of champagne arrived with no straws and no cups. I swear the waiter looked at me like I had five heads when I asked for a glass to drink my champagne out of. Oh okay … are cups not cool in NYC? I’m confused. 

We ordered food, which felt super out of place, but I noshed on my truffle fries as the faux-dashians selfied themselves to death around me, because … well fries. I know my priorities even when I’m in the twilight zone. 

Once I had sweet alcohol flowing through my veins, I began to dance a little in my seat like a grandma and people watch. Immediately I noticed these absolutely STUNNING women, each with a bottle of Moet Chandon in front of them immersed in their social media world. Like dressed to the nines, each one looking effortlessly stunning than the next.

I resisted the strong urge to ask them what the hell they did for a living besides sit at brunch and take Snapchat videos of themselves lip syncing seductively to the music and flipping their hair (yes, that happened … like they didn’t talk to one another, that is ALL they did).

Everyone looked like they were “someone,” but a large part of me knew they were not, which made it all feel really sad. For example, the lady in the expensive-looking flowing skirt who I witnessed lift her leg up onto the bar and start to twerk … she wasn’t someone. But my god was trying. 

I happened to be on my way to the ladies room when she did this and had the unfortunate timing of seeing a good majority of her vagina. And I’m super sad to report that wasn’t the only unintentional vagina I saw that day. Sigh. 

Like I said, they were all Kardashian clones. Tight ass dresses with long flowing trenches over them. Crop tops with old school Tommy Hilfiger jean jackets over them paired with Adidas shell toes. Long ass t-shirts paired with thigh high boots and Kourtney Kardashian long locks. And it didn’t matter if you were 100 pounds of 500 pounds, you were wearing a crop top. I suppose it is a requirement in the state of NY. 

Me? Well, I wore black ripped skinnies, a lace top with a hint of witch, and a cool set of heels. To which the bouncer at this nightmare told me I looked, “comfortable.” COMFORTABLE. That’s when I almost removed my non-existant hoops, said, “this is considered stylish in Philly, sir!” like a moron, and had to leave.

I’ve never felt more uncool slash uncomfortable in my life. At one point I found myself painting dark matte lipstick on myself and contemplating taking off my camisole underneath my lace top to expose my lame bra and compete with these bitches. I didn’t because I woke up and realized, “self, you don’t live here, this isn’t you, and oh yeah, this doesn’t matter.” 

I still to this day can’t help but wonder, do these people work? Because if I got as rip roaring drunk as these people did on a Sunday before I had to work, Jesus Christ I would be dead. There would be no reviving my ass. I was dead for days after just trying to survive the whole ordeal. 

So there you have it. If your friend ever tries to talk you into going to a “brunch nightclub” when you’re half in the bag, run as far away as humanly possible. Give me my couch, sweats, Netflix, takeout, and a bottle of champagne, with a fucking glass to drink it out of.