It's a Sunday morning around 9 am, and you wake up feeling wrecked AF. So you sit up to grab the Vita Coco and stash of Advil you keep on your night table because duh.
Only you can't really sit up because your head is freaking pounding. And you don't actually see any coconut water. Or Advil. And where the hell is your night table?
"Fuck" is the word that would escape your lips if not for the fact that your mouth can't actually summon a sound. So you lie back, taking in the strange ceiling fan circling lazily above your head. Is it giving you the spins? Or did you have those already?
And then suddenly it all comes flashing back: The ten vodka sodas, the grinding to Drake, the makeout sesh at the bar with that dude who looked like Channing Tatum.
You glance to your left and there he is. At least you think it's him. Because all you can see are waves of brown hair on the back of a head. A brief image of your hands running through those waves swims by. But it's gone before you can remember a single other thing. Like how you got here, for example. Or what his freaking name is.
What you do know is that you are currently going commando. Because those are your favorite black Hanky Pankys crumpled on the floor next to that ripped Trojan wrapper, that's why.
Welcome to your first official #Summer2K16 blackout hookup.
YASSSS!
Look, we've all been there, done him. So leave the hoe-shaming to your friends, give yourself a mental high five, and then shake off that high-key hangover because I need you to focus on one thing and one thing only: collecting all your shit and GTFO before Channing Tatum wakes up.
And yes I know that's two things. But this is no time to split hairs. Because you and I know both know that in the harsh light of day this rando is not gonna look anything like Channing Tatum. Which makes the walk of shame the lesser of two evils here so let's do this.
For starters, I'm gonna need you to sit up slowly and scan the room for that cute top you wore last night. Because once you've got that sucker on, you can pad around like a boss without worrying about your high beam status and whether or not your Brazilian is up to date.
Of course, if you rolled up to the club in an LBD cut up to vaginaville or some equally slutty cropped tank and mini combo then you're pretty much screwed. And yes, that's twice if you're counting so please remember to hit up Walgreens later to stock up on Plan B.
In the meantime, find the rest of your wardrobe ASAP. And if you can't, just swipe a faded t-shirt advertising some local dive bar from Channing. He looked kind of shady so we're sure he'll chalk it up breakage. Then locate your phone and those five-inch wedges you busted out last night because they make your legs look like Kendall Jenner's. And do it quickly because the amount of time you have before Channing wakes up is dwindling away as fast as the last $500 mil in Kim and Kanye's bank account.
Now that you're finally ready to bounce, you may be tempted to slow your roll and hit up the bathroom or snoop through Channing's shit or do something even worse like wake him up to ask for his digits.
Just... no. HAIL no!
Do not stop to write a note or smear Colgate over your teeth or clean up the five coats of mascara that's now dripping down your face. Do not even pause to read all the drunk texts you sent last night or check your Snapchat story so you can re-live all the dumb shit you probably did.
Besides this.
Just sneak the fuck out of there as fast as you can, ok?
Because a messy, smokey eye is totally a thing, because there will be plenty of time to Facebook stalk this dude later, and because the only thing worse than doing the walk of shame, is doing the walk of shame while trying to pretend that you're not doing the walk of shame.
And if you just followed that logic than maybe you're not as hungover as you thought.
Here's the deal: We all know you got some last night, and no amount of clean up is going to convince us otherwise, so you might as well just own that shit. At least until you're a big enough pimp to hire your own glam squad.
So fling open that front door like you have zero fucks to give, and then make that walk your bitch like you are Beyonce and you freaking woke up like this.
Bow down bitches, bow bow down bitches
Just kidding, you guys!
Walk of shames are so 2K10.
It's 2016 now in case you didn't know. So go back inside and order your slutty ass an Uber.
Hollee Actman Becker writes for sites like Parents, Romper, Fit Pregnancy and Scary Mommy, and on her blog suburbabble. Check out more of her work on her website: holleeactmanbecker.com.