It's 11:30, the club is bumpin' bumpin', and I'm contemplating a hate crime. Wednesday night is ladies night (as in ladies who like ladies night, not a night celebrating everyone's vulva with half-priced vodka tonics), and I've wormed into a sliver of much-coveted bathroom mirror space to painstakingly reapply my signature (in my head) shade of Yves St. Laurent lippy.
To my left, a pack of women monopolizing 75 percent of counter space is conducting a conversation so irritating my jaw has locked into a strikingly unbecoming grimace.
"OK, ladies," chirps the loudest, signaling for the attention of her fellow primpers by raising aloft an oversized Coach clutch, "We have to brace ourselves to be hit on by girls." More »
