A Reading from The Book of Dinah: Nothing Good Happens After 3 a.m.

Why do they say nothing good happens after 3 a.m.? Or maybe they say a woman's legs should close before 11 p.m., but that seems even more illogical, and like nobody's business...

Most times I don't even know who they are, but after only moments of reminiscing, the reasons they might say nothing good happens after 3 a.m. are abundantly clear. 

The long-standing tradition leading up to after 3 a.m. is called The Night Out, a time to indulge and to numb the rampant thoughts about what people say, why can't this be, & will i ever, etc. Whether the night out causes what happens after 3 a.m. or not, well, as with the chicken vs the egg and life vs art's imitation of it, a circle has no beginning

Back to the escapist nocturnal adventure, which typically begins 2 days prior when the first group message suggesting a weekend shake up goes out:

"Hey there ladies! How is everyone? It's been far too long since I've seen your beautiful faces {emoticon sequence: sad, nail painting, sassy hair flip}. Let's do something this weekend!!!!!"

57 messages, 1 battery outage, 6 are you sure you're going or nahs, and 3 days later, it's 9 p.m. the night of and time to start the pre-numb. If you're one of those select people who plays a game of "one shot per reason I don't want to go out", then you're drunk by 11 at the latest, and well before leaving the house. If you've done the thing properly and entirely, your makeup will be unfinished, your original outfit long since thrown on the bathroom floor in favor of your usual getup, and, most conveniently, you've been deemed incapable of being the designated driver.

Fast forward to 2 a.m. You have no choice, because in between leaving the house and the onset of the spins your thoughts took a detour to Mordor on their way to your recollection center. They were considerate enough to leave a partial trail of crumbs — the one couple dancing as awkwardly as Karlie Redd on her best day, the raging white boy whose tongue developed the oral version of whiskey dick halfway into his behind the veil of white privilege rant about reverse racism, and the rancid smell of the excretory melting pot hardly suitable for human use — but at 2 a.m. the stomach needs more than crumbs to make sense of it all. (At this point in the night out, once true hunger has set in, those most sensitive to environmental factors and fit for survival realize there's a small window of allowance for a unencumbered departure from the venue. The trick is to leave immediately when the DJ announces the last song and presses play. Departing at this crucial moment will spare you the impossible task of following out behind drunkards and 90 minutes of wait time at Waffle House for the requisite hangover-cure breakfast.)

By 3 a.m., with a belly full of whiskey, syrup, and cheese, there's nothing left to do but to sit back and watch, amused, as the last of the night crawlers huffs and puffs in the waiting area, wishing for nothing more than to be at one of the very tables at which you sit with even a morsel of your leftovers. That's what happens when you stay for that last song, which also played just before midnight, which you'd know if you hadn't waited so late to go out, chasing the cool...

But, as most know but few accept, you can't escape the inevitable. Though numbed and temporarily subdued, thoughts linger; and, stupefied or emboldened by intoxicants, one can't help but to pick at them.  

Finally, after 3 a.m., the night out ends and the run from the truth is over. Neither gluttony nor intoxication can shield the eyes from the world before them. After 3 a.m., one can no longer hide from the truths, stumbling about in plain sight. After 3 a.m., after the clubs close, after the pours stop, after the mass exodus from society's escape havens ends, the world's ugly underbelly surfaces. 

People fighting; drunk and racist rants hurled at unsuspecting innocents; men taking advantage of the one who has had too much, exhibiting a twisted excitement at the opportunity to conquer a mentally-incapable prospect; police manipulating the law to arrest those who can't afford to pay their way out while the intoxicated heiress drives on the sidewalk all the way home; women burdened by the culture-induced desperation all competing to bring the boys to the yard without realizing the damage a man's presence will do to the grass.

After 3 a.m., blurred lines focus only to blur again, revealing each unique face is heavily painted the same way to resemble one ill-conceived ideal. Small variances in universal hairstyles become more noticeable: some are long, some are short, most aren't real, and even the nice looking ones broadcast the same desperation to deny one's natural beauty in favor of a look meant to allure and to appease. The color spectrum is the only thing differentiating one fitted outfit from another, all clinging tightly to an exaggerated and twisted figure. This new breed of fembots serve as a constant reminder of the ugliness and internal permeation of self-hate, the destructive preferences of society and men, the ominous future for young girls, and the manipulated insecurities of so many. 

Unfortunately, there is little that can be done to remedy the ugliness of these nocturnal truths, which, of course, is why they say nothing good happens after 3 a.m....

...or maybe I just shouldn't fucking go out anymore.