Usually I'd be tucked up behind my laptop, crossing and curling my legs over the duvet as I desperately search for the illegal download of some new American series, being spritely and somewhat alive on a Wednesday has been a priority for all too long. It is, with reason, a school night after all.
But no longer.
Life as a freelance internet someone, throwing yourself between the halves and in-betweens of impoverished bank statements and squandered cash on all day travel cards and expensive new pop-up restaurants gets a bit bloody boring.
Don't get me wrong, I realise how many of you will want to smack me for complaining, I'd love no other working lifestyle and I'm in no way complacent- but the stress of managing five active email accounts, three shoot days, two demanding clients and a neglected blog all in a short week whilst trying to make a vague attempt at a failing love life means whilst one half of your brain is screaming for sleep, all the other half wants is wine.
And a laugh.
Welcome G-A-Y Late.
The floors are sticky, the music is awful, the queue to get in suggests they're handing out cheques at the door, but you can buy a round for £8 and no one bats an eyelid if you launch yourself across the floor to do a well earned Dirty Dancing lift with a stranger. Which in my books, makes it ironically, heaven.
Last Tuesday was no exception, scrambling from a party in Leicester Square with my fill of free wine I met the boys inside ready to sing away my spreadsheet woes to some one-hit-wonder from some good looking 90's boy band.
Flailing my limbs around like a ten year old playing musical bumps, I spotted one of my friends failing to chat up a girl in the corner.
Off I popped to give him a hand and innocently sprinkle my wing-woman charm and then instead of keeping tight lipped over his unsuccessful efforts my lips ended up on hers.
In true British fashion, I didn't want to seem rude or ungrateful to her advances and just sort of went along with it.
Much to the applaud of the group of guys I was with, I stood and kissed this girl in the fluoro lights of a central London gay club and actually really enjoyed it.
It was liberating and completely unlike me, sense and conscience left at the cloakroom.
It didn't matter whether or not it was a declaration of me exploring my sexuality or if it were me just misted by the last four mystery shots I'd had at the bar, it was deemed as a perfectly accepted act on a Tuesday night out.
I am a straight female, I have no confusion there, vaginas terrify me too much to think otherwise, so what the hell was I doing with a girls tongue in my mouth?
Instead of waking up the next day with the promised taste of cherry chapstick, I felt a bit sick with questions.
Was what I'd done insulting? In a generation where 'faux-lesbianism' is actually a thing, this idea where it's just as fashionable to eat kale as it is to eat er...the same sex, in the vague and vain hope of inciting straight men whilst (allegedly) showing solidarity for Lesbian women alike.
Was I just an advocate for the ignorance so many of us are adopting for the sake of finding a win-win promise land of being sexy AND humanitarian?
To be fair, I'd not put that much thought into it. I was literally just kissing someone in a club, the same way I might drunkenly and regrettably get off with a guy who buys me a drink.
I'm by no means promising him my true devotion or feeling, it's just a physical act taking place on a Tuesday night where we're all trying to forget about someone or something.
But because I was kissing a girl, I lay ridden with a guilty conscience.
I don't stand alone in my Tuesday fumble, 35-40% of women report same sex encounters or arousal, up from only 2% in 1992. Is this because society is ticking it off as more acceptable to be gay and as a generation we're more intelligent towards sexuality or simply because famed women like Miley Cyrus and Cara Delevingne are advocating sapphism style?
After I'd told myself repeatedly over half a kilo of mango slices on the kitchen floor of my friend the day after that what I'd done was absolutely fine, I then almost felt sympathetic for him.
Society wouldn't let him do what I did.
As a straight male, the ridicule and disgust that would be shun upon him if he were to kiss another male in a club would be catastrophic as opposed to erotic.
He'd never live it down where as I got nothing short of a round of applause.
I, as a straight female can kiss whoever the hell I like without having to give an explanation.
Which seems completely and utterly bizarre and ironic when that almost suggests a glimmer of equality whilst trashing the other.
I did what I did because I was under the influence of a ridiculous notion that I was trying to escape something. Which by no means is excusable, nor does it need to be excusable.
But when you do it just for a giggle, to heighten their attractiveness to the opposite sex, is it just feeding into the horrific and perpetual notion that being gay is or can be just a phase?