I took a shitty Instagram photo to prove I was there.

Earlier this week when discussing ideas for posts, Jennifer suggested I try to sneak into a fashion party and write about it. I said no. I absolutely did not want to go to a fashion party badly enough to wait in line for an hour, get yelled at by security, scale a fence, and then, after all that, probably still get kicked out and humiliated. I mean, I barely wanted to go at all. It just didn’t seem worth it for a few weak drinks and helpings of stink eye from people with empty stomach breath.

Then I got invited to a party Azealia Banks and Hunters were playing at. I fucking love Azealia Banks and Hunters. God dammit! Maybe I’d go on the early side and the line wouldn’t be too long? What were the chances?

When my roommate Debbie and I rolled up to the Wythe Hotel on our bikes, there were already two long lines outside. I may or not be imagining this, but it seems like people I know selectively lose the ability to see and hear me when in the line for a “very tight door.” And that door was tight like a four-year-old. I got in the press/VIP line first, because I’d put down an affiliation when I’d RSVP’d, but when I said I wasn’t sure which list I was actually on, the bouncer guy pulled me out of the line, had the guy at the front check both lists for my name, found my name, and then ordered me all the way to the end of the general admission line. Which, as I said, was long. And not moving. “This is stupid,” I said to Debbie.

Rather than wait forever to not get in, we went up to the Wythe’s rooftop bar to have a drink and decide what non-fashion-week thing to do next, because fuck fashion week. It was nice up there, but a little bougie for us, and when the manager came over and asked Debbie to stop sitting up on the edge of the roof, we decided to pound our drinks and go home. “Let’s take the stairs,” I said, making a face like “fuck it, let’s do this.”

I’m not going to say which stairs we took, because I don’t want this post to be too detrimental to people’s future efforts to sneak into parties at the Wythe Hotel, but suffice it to say it was not the most apparent option. We followed the noise, and eventually, we were in! Despite being incredibly weak and taking forever to order, the drinks tasted so much better knowing that we were not supposed to be getting them.

And Azealia Banks sounded better, if that’s even possible. We’d missed Hunters, but not Ms. Banks, who took the stage right as we were getting our vodka sodas. Music is never a priority at these things—the sound and sight lines tend to be terrible—and it was impossible to see Azealia and her backup dancers unless you were right in front. (It actually seemed like she was even closer to the ground than me; is she just really tiny?) Although I caught glimpses of her here and there, I watched most of the performance on an iPad someone was using to record the whole thing. But she sounded great, and everyone danced when she performed her hit “212,” and yelled along with the golden line “I guess that cunt gettin’ eaten.” WHOSE CUNT IS GETTING EATEN NOW, FASHION WEEK?

After Azealia played, we didn’t really have much reason to stay. Despite the party being thrown partly by Spin, none of my music journo friends were there, and it’s just not that fun for me to mingle with strangers who work in a different field than me, and who I’m probably not going to see again. (Unless they’re being totally weird and awesome.) We did, however, chat up two nice girls from Chicago whose lace dresses we liked, and found that one was from Nordstom, while the other was from Rent The Runway.

In the end, I’m glad we took a chance on this, because it was cool to see Azealia Banks, and also, of course, to feel a sense of victory over the party. At first I was like “come on, we’ll just see her at CMJ, surrounded by people we can get down with,” but if I have a choice between seeing Azealia Banks now and seeing Azealia Banks later, I choose now. I’m bummed we didn’t get to see Hunters, but that’s the price you pay when you sneak into a party; sometimes it takes a while. They’re definitely next on my list, though. Maybe I’ll even get in the regular way.