Saturday night at The Crowne Plaza, Rosebank was something out of a flashback in Gossip Girl or a faraway adventure a wanna be Upper East Side socialite would've stepped into after a pair of Marc by Marc Jacobs stilettos landed into her lap in the kind of way that makes you believe in good karma.
If I had to choose a soundtrack for the whole night - which I should really get around to - it would have to be something like Flashing Lights or New In Town by Little Boots or maybe, uh, I don't know, something that makes you think of twinkly lights, sparkling wine swishing into crystal glasses and the clickety-clack of expensive shoes. You feel me?
I bounded in like a Power Ranger with my well-dressed girl gang of three, and this may be presumptuous, but we were the life of every room. Our heels were higher, our laughs were bigger, our smiles were brighter and our jokes were just a teeny bit more funny than yours.
Well, at least, that's what it felt like. Everyone else must've thought we were lip smacking, giggly weirdos sticking our tongues out for more photos than in any Miley Cyrus video.
While I could try and tell you more about how amazing the night was, the 18th century brought us the convention that is film.