8:52pm
The Todd Pavlisko show at moniquemeloche gallery
As we enter the gallery (118 N Peoria St, 312-455-0299) and pluck beers from a bucket, a young guy stands on a platform next to a ten-foot-square rink—just large enough to hold a glitzy purple bumper car.

CENT OF A WOMAN Clockwise from left: the writer (left) and her friend Tamia take a bumpy ride at moniquemeloche gallery; the beer-swilling crowd in the gallery district; chugging brews before hitting Sonotheque; creating drunk-art at an after-party.

He entices passersby by muttering, “Care for a ride?” Tamia and I don’t think twice before jumping in, open beers in hand. One hard spin sends us head-on into the rink’s wall, bumping us backward and sloshing the beer all over my shimmering top. A small crowd gathers, watching us giggle hysterically while I repeatedly give us whiplash. As we dizzily get out of the car, some guy hands us a flyer for the after-party.
Lesson 4: Sometimes you just need to take whatever people hand you.

10:35pm
Warehouse party at Ashland and Cullerton Avenues
The after-party is in a space that’s rumored to be Pavlisko’s apartment and workspace (according to some girl puking in the bathroom). The first room we enter has a homemade DJ booth made of plywood and duct tape, flashing lights and two girls grinding on each other. We gallivant to the back room where a girl with a geometric haircut sits in a wheelchair, which is placed inside a series of red circles painted on the floor. An older guy slides up to me, hands me a cold beer and says, “Hey, don’t worry. It’s not like she’s really crippled or anything.” We silently stare for a moment until he acknowledges we have nothing to say to each other and backs away.
Lesson 5: After-parties aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Midnight
After chugging some Carlo Rossi we found in the hallway, we decide to do some real dancing and hitch a ride with a friend to Sonotheque (1444 W Chicago Ave, 312-226-7600).

12:17am
New Indie night at Sonotheque
On the first Friday of every month, this Ukrainian Village lounge’s New Indie night features electro-pop, disco and new-rave hits (get discounted admission by R.S.V.P.’ing to the.new.indie@gmail.com). Still, the cover is way more than zero dollars, so I protest to the door guy that “I really do know someone!” He doesn’t buy it. So I plant myself next to the door until one of the party hosts peeks out to check on the line; I grab her arm and follow her in.

Since there are no free drinks to be had, I put my boozing on hold and dance for a while. The dance floor is full, and I keep knocking into my neighbors. Eventually a guy I’ve been jabbing with my elbow offers me a drink. We belly up to the bar, and start chatting about all the usual stuff (“Oh, you have a worthless degree from a liberal-arts school, too!”) until I feel something tickling my back. I look behind me expecting to see some clumsy dancer, only to find the dude’s snaky fingers trying to sneak across my lower back. I say I have to use the ladies’ room and successfully avoid him for the rest of the night. 
Lesson 6: No free drink is worth letting hipster dudes feel you up.

After 2am
Hot dogs in Wicker Park
I am supposed to go to some after-after-party the Sonotheque DJ told me about but am so starved that I ditch drinking for hot dogs at Underdog (1570½ N Damen Ave, 773-384-4030). Tamia has to buy because I have no cash, but considering how drunk we got for free tonight, $2 isn’t a big deal to her.
Lesson 7: Having an empty wallet isn’t so bad as long as you have friends who will let you mooch.