This is a risky strategy because it goes one of two ways:
i. You accidentally drink an entire bottle of wine to yourself while waiting for one of your 600+ Facebook friends to notice you’re home and alone on Saturday night, and you end up peaking too early and going to sleep at 10PM with a YouTube playlist of conspiracy theories on, thoroughly uninvited to have fun;
ii. You actually do get invited out but you have to have a 20-minute stop-start conversation with someone mainly conducted via .gifs first, and they keep going missing because they’re already in a basement bar on spotty 4G
Anyway, the second one has happened and you’ve finally got invited out somewhere, and now that lurching knot of anxiety you had in your stomach when you hadn’t been invited out has formed and morphed into another, slightly larger knot of anxiety now you are going out. The sun is just creeping down and it’s still going to take an hour for you to get ready. Are you hyped enough? It’s a weird question, isn’t it: the spirit is willing but the body is tired. You have half a bottle of Smirnoff Ice that is inexplicably in your fridge, and you listen to three guaranteed "pump you up" songs on the bounce. You put a good outfit on and consider doing something new and brave with your hair. It looks good, doesn’t it, right, the new hair thing? People will notice, though. People will say something. Exactly four seconds before you leave the house, you turn around and do your hair back the normal way. The world is not ready for you to do a new thing with your hair.
There is a certain internal giddiness that comes with being an hour or two behind the timings of a night out: the same high stress of being late to the airport but without the fear, tingles of excitement instead. You’ve got your headphones in and the top deck of the bus to yourself. You’ve got a little bottle of something in your inside pocket and you are doing Instagram selfies of you drinking it and getting a fair-to-middling response to them. You are young and vital and alive. Nothing can kill you and nothing can touch this vibe. You have a finite number of Saturday nights before you die! Make! This! One! Count!