Have some more!

NO DEAL. You get a refill. After all, bigger is better. More is better. YOU, ARE BETTER. You walk back to the living room... but deviate, into your own room, looking at the entrepreneur in the mirror. It isn't just that you're successful, you realize, but that you're SECURE. There's still risk but who cares, there's ALWAYS gonna be still risk, but the accomplishments? They're with you forever. Take a risk at work? Who cares if it doesn't work out, find another job. Your resume is fucking gold. YOU'RE gold! It's just a numbers game, you can just keep trying until it works, in which case you're already SET! You start jotting down business ideas, as you finish your glass. In which case, what's next? Back-to-back vacations! Shit, you can already do that now, probably! The ramifications are still reeling in your mind as you wobble back to the kitchen, a little, for another refill. No sense in moderation. It's for losers.

Back in your bedroom, after some more brainstorming, any further is a hassle and you're quite set already, after all, in which case you can probably take a husband. No, a king! --Well, no, you don't like him being the king, if you're the Queen it kinda sounds like he is in charge and YOU ARE. You'll take a prince. He can become the king when he gives you a prince of your own. This is the beginning of ROYALTY. You sip at your glass, and when you look in the mirror again you're no longer content with the shabby clothes you're wearing, so you pull off your PJ's, and your mis-matched underwear, and bust out the lingerie box you've had for a few years. And it's the whole kit. Black lace bra and panties, garter belt, stockings... you chuckle to yourself, even as you stagger and wobble and struggle to put them on, and even when you're done is far from polished, with twirls in straps, wrinkles behind clasps and so-on, but you still look in the mirror, statisfied, at your full length. The sizes are obsolete, since it's been sitting there for years. Everywhere digs in. It hurts.. normally. But as it is, it just means you're just too much for it, which also makes sense!

Your little fashion show only gets worse as the night goes on, and you grow even more intoxicated. You try awkward mismatches like heels and jewelry, or no bra and a padded shoulder business coat, as you firmly cement the image of the apex, boss bitch that's smart and rich and strong and mean and a constant temptation in the office.

Of course, a third party would instead see a drunk, staggering around in miss-sized underwear and heels, for no obvious reason, slurring orders at imaginary people. Even Pop-Tart is a bit ashamed.

You wake up, the next day, in black lace and stockings and heels in bed. And fuzzy on the details why. ...What the fuck are you wearing??