In Defence of Drunk Girls in the Bathroom

There are three guarantees in life: death, taxes and the fact that if you walk into any club’s female bathroom you will experience a matriarchal utopia.

The drunk girl gets a bad rap. She’s the butt of the joke in every D-Grade Hollywood flick. She’s female hysteria embodied, clutching onto the muscled arm of her more sober suitor. A liability.

But is she, really? 

Well sure, to an extent. But she’s not that two dimensional. She’s the facilitator of secret women’s business, the spiritual hushed kind that is only conducted at sleepovers and in the girls' bathrooms. She will tell you all her secrets and take yours, lock jawed, to the grave. Pinky promise. You met her 10 minutes ago, but you’re best friends. Love at first sight. 

Nothing is trivial – everything you’ve ever felt is important. There’s no doubt in your mind that she’s for the girls. And on a night out, she’s someone you absolutely want on your team. 

This is how it usually goes:

She’s squeezed into a labia-length bodycon and tripping over her stilt-like stilettos. Slurring as she orders another vodkalimesssoda. Insisting on another selfie. The club is her playground. But once her heeled hoof hits the bathroom tile and pass the threshold of a fluorescently lit mecca, it’s business time.

Her clutch is her armoury (how does it fit everything?). Her weapons of choice:: Lipstick, tampons & a baggy. You’re in need? She’s got it. She’s got you. You’re fixed before you can even lodge your complaint. Her intuition and mysticism is naught but divine. She upholds the very values of sisterhood. She is the poster child for unconditional love. She is always in your court. She would take a bullet for you. I have been her, I have been loved by her.

The bathrooms are a confessional, the drunk girl your priest. Her wisdom is gospel. She is an expert in sociology, has a doctorate in relationship drama, is the high priestess of praise. She works in far from ideal conditions (the backing track to her advice is nearly always the throaty baritones of residual bass beckoning from the dance floor). She’s a seamstress and a makeup artist and will tell it to you straight if he’s fucking you around, which, for the record, he is and you deserve better than that. 

Whenever I see someone comment online that their faith in humanity is lost, I know that they have never experienced the magic of a 2a.m. lavatory line. The kindness and compassion of a complete stranger. I know that if I ever need anything: a piss, lip gloss, a compliment, I can go to the girl’s toilets and they will provide with a squeal and open arms. A homecoming. A cathedral of catharsis. Everything holy happens in those hallowed stalls. 

To this harem of fuck-eyed fairygodmothers, I thank you for your service. 

It is no small task to spend your weekend evenings upholding the very moral fabric of society. I walk into the women’s bathrooms with my Sim bars sliding from orange to red. I leave with a full tank, a bursting heart and, if I’m lucky, a toilet paper wedding train in tow. It truly takes a village.