It's 7:30 p.m. on Friday, and I'm strutting down Wisconsin Avenue like the fierce, slightly intoxicated bitch that I am — oversized sunglasses shielding my eyes, the collar of my pink polo popped, cell phone glued to my ear — when I look down at my right arm and notice that it's covered in blood.

"Erica, I'll have to call you back," I say. "I'm, like, bleeding or something."

I hang up my phone and take another look at my arm. Holy shit! There's blood pouring from the crease of my elbow in thick, broad streaks. A droplet materializes on my forearm, and it drips down to my wrist, leaving a rusty trail behind it. Um, okay. If this shit gets on my shirt, I'm going to be fucking pissed.

Lucky for me, it wasn't blood dripping down my arm. Oh no. It was my god damn sunless tanner. Streak-free, my ass — the weather was so humid that I was literally sweating bronzer! God only knows how long I'd been looking like a trauma victim, so I rubbed the tanner back into my arm as evenly as I could. And yes, my palms were looking mighty orange as a result, but hey, no one is perfect: