.bachelorette party.

9 p.m. last night, three friends and i pull up to the alibi. the alibi calls itself something like a tiki bar, and has walls made of straw and thickly-mortared rock. sea shell lamps hang from the ceiling and the menu wreaks of grease and pinapple.

i'm slightly off my rocker, in that haven't-eaten-since-breakfast, still-slightly-hungover, have-taken-three-zantac-and-still-have-heartburn kind of way. i'm rambling at an accelerated pace about innapropriate personal idiosyncracies. this is my m.o.: to advertise my quirkiest and ugliest traits and musings. it's a bizarre coping mechanism for shame.

we're sucking down rapid rounds of vodka sodas and have already begun to fill the ashtray with crumpled butts of camel lights. i'm hoping that liquor will take the edge off more than just the heartburn and manic twitching, but also the sting and whip of feeling particularly raw. on certain days i feel as if my skin is on inside out, and i am overwhelmed with an unbearable sense of vulnerability.

it's at this point that five woozy ponytails and low-cut shirts slide into the booth next to us, fingernails fluttering and voices vulgar and hoarse and sloppy. who's getting marries? asks the flighty waitress, between what i imagine are sneaked shots of vodka in the back room. it's droopy eyes. she's far past the point of perky-drunk and appears pointedly lethargic. the waitress serves her up a martini anyway.

it's then that the homeliest of the group whips out a light-up dildo on a stick that could do double-duty as a lightsaber and a big plastic cock and balls. conversation at our table stagnates, and we become a patient and attentive audience for the bachelorette party.

it's an ugly scene. the homely girl spends the rest of the night with plastic balls jutting out of her shirt, between her cleavage. she alternatively sings into it, like a microphone, and licks it. her voice is manly and completely monotone. (our table agrees she bears likeness to chris farley.) her eyes flutter and roll back. we decide that the whole bachelorette party is on drugs, but the tequila shots and budweisers keep on coming.

i'm mesmerized by the girl licking balls and laughing hard at the spectacle. i stare as if at an accident and laugh as children do at the kid with the limp. it's a mean, cruel laugh. it's the kind of laugh that doesn't seem far removed from crying, and has the same hysterical intensity. by the end of the night, several of the women are sprawled out on the floor under the table. breasts are easing their way out of the sides of tanktops. there's an empy martini glass upside down on the floor. i don't know it yet, but the cops are on their way.

i feel safely separate from the likes of this sloppy crowd. even though i've had several drinks and words catch on my tongue, i feel like jackie kennedy: poised and dignified and stylish. thank god i'm not that desperate and pathetic.

the waitress brings us our bill and explains that we've had nineteen vodka sodas and three gin and tonics. it comes to $105.

four faces cringe and consider our likenesses reflected in the wretched gaggle.