I went out to the club the other night, to, y'know, dance with my bitches...that guy was there again.

He's like, I'm sorry for what I said last weekend. I told him I didn't mind, which was a lie, but I was equally sorry, and I didn't want to apologise.

It was just a drunk text. In my head I was writing a fiction of us. Behind my eyes I was begging for things my lips could never ask...and my mouth kept pouring desperate clauses of random intent.

He asked me if he could text me later. After the club...he hands me another shot of vodka. And I say...sure.

I'm on the dancefloor when I get a text from Adam. I'm too lazy to type, so I send a photo I took up a dancer's skirt, telling him to come and get it, not realising what I just said. Later on she comes up to me, holds up her phone screaming at me and I say...I'm sorry, it was just a drunk text.

I should've known they knew each other. No one is safe in the Twittersphere anymore.

You take the word sex and mix it with texting...it's called sexting.

When you add drunk sexting...the words just don't make sense. It's a hot mess of misspelled obscenities, body parts, run-on questions...I'm not sure what he means to ask.

I get a text from my best friend...she's upstairs getting bottle service. She's like...this guy wants you to wet your lips with this bottle. He wants me to bring more girls up...he's some kind of pimp. Are you fucking kidding me?

It's just another moment, and one stupid reply can lead to the walk of shame. And I'll be damned if I end up in some lame diner after this, last night's lingerie in my purse.

It was just a drunk text...it was just a drunk text. This is the last time I'll ever drink and text. It was just a drunk text...it was just a drunk text.