Thinking systematically.

Number of days since Friday: 3.

Number of emotional headfucking problems reeling around in the brain before the sixth form ball: many.
Number of pieces of bad news received just before the ball: 1.
Number of solutions to this: 1. Alcohol. Lots.

Amount of fun had on the Dixie Queen paddlesteamer: a lot.
Number of times attacked buffet: 4.
Number of teachers caught dad-dancing to The Proclaimers: 3.
Amount of crazed dancing done: lots and lots and lots.
Number of pictures of me doing crazed dancing currently floating around the internet: thankfully only 1.
Number of times Tower Bridge went up for us: 2.
Number of terrible pictures of Tower Bridge taken on camera phone: 17.
Amount of alcohol consumed: good question.

Amount of time spent flirting drunkenly with someone I really shouldn't have: too much.
Consequences of this: disastrous.

Number of people who persuaded me to come to the afterparty: 4.
Verdict on afterparty venue: YUCK.
Verdict on afterparty music: YUCK.
Verdict on afterparty drinks: YUCK.
Amount consumed regardless: Erm?
Amount of time spent making the aforementioned flirtation even more complicated: about an hour, in total.
Number of solutions to this: 1. Drink. More.

Amount of dancing done to music I hate in the middle of a heaving mass of sweaty people: a lot.
Number of guys who attempted to take advantage of my distinct lack-of-brain: 3.
Number of times rescued by Harriet: 3. (Boy do I owe her one.)
Number of solutions to this: see above.
Size of ego by this point: non-existent.

Number of times I was made aware of how incredibly skanky this club actually was: 1000.
Number of gangs hovering in and then eventually outside of the club: 1.
Number of gunshots made at the club while I was at the window: 2.
Number of glass shards on cheek: 2.
My reaction to this near-death experience: non-existent.
Number of minutes it took me to realise it would be a good idea to move away from the window: about 5.
Final reminder of how disgusting the place was: then. At which point we left.
Time of arrival at home: 7am. Ish.

Number of muscles not aching for the rest of the weekend: like, maybe 3?
Number of minutes not spent hating self: maybe 4.

Number of thoughts about HIM: 398,762.

Overall verdict: oh fucking god, what have I become?