I WAKE UP at noon on Sunday in someone else's bed with nothing on but a calculator watch. My thumb is ripped down the side of my nail, and my legs are covered in red scratches and dark green bruises. What have I done?

I spot my crumpled dress on the floor, yank it on, and embark on my walk of shame through the Tenderloin. The sun beats down on Turk Street, burning my naked back and melting blue mascara down my face. I feel sick, dehydrated like never before. I cruise up Polk Street, sway into my apartment, and at 6 p.m., fall asleep for 14 hours. I wake up Monday feeling worse, make a pot of coffee, take one sip, and almost puke my guts out. Welcome to the aftermath of the Horrible Night Out.

The awful activities began last Saturday night when I orchestrated a meeting of about 10 or so friends in an attempt to uncover the mysterious workings of the Horrible Night Out. The concept was born about a month ago during a conversation with my friend Hank, a perverse, disdainful soul who hates everything but Russ Meyer flicks and half-empty noise rock events. We were tired of trying to have fun, of always hoping for something good to happen. And of course, we were sick of being fully disappointed. "We need to represent the flip side of the coin," Hank said. "In a day and age when everything must be done right, why not do the wrong thing?" Thus, we aimed for the lowest common denominator and dropped all expectations – aside from negative ones.

The big scheme

A Horrible Night Out requires extensive planning. An intricate, precise blueprint must be designed in order to ensure that everything goes absolutely wrong, because naturally, the best nights are usually those that happen spontaneously, when the good times take you by surprise. An absolutely wrong night requires stuff like a gestapo-strict itinerary, stopwatches, stink bombs, the Marina triangle, PCP, an embarrassing limo, and an Internet date. One does not normally anticipate a bust by the National Guard, but count your blessings if it happens.

First Hank and I decided on the venues we would visit. Of course, we couldn't resist upscale places like homeless-hating supervisor Gavin Newsom's Matrix, Le Colonial, Harry Denton's Rouge, the Elite Cafe, and the Clift, whose P.R. nazi informed me they didn't need our kind, which was a huge bummer because it foiled our terrorist plans. Hank came up with the brilliant idea of using stink bombs, which we imagined would be perfect for dropping inside the Clift and at the Matrix. When Hank described the stink bomb packaging ("some chick with cut-off jeans and a huge fart shooting out of her ass"), my adrenaline started to race.

Of course, no horrible night out would be right without the wrong drugs. Our plan went from coffee and bong hits to mushrooms and champagne, but eventually switched to the more apropos acid and PCP. Hank, who neither drinks nor drugs, was rooting fast and furious for the PCP. "Could there possibly be anything worse?" he demanded. I did not pursue his suggestion with heaps of enthusiasm.

To indulge in new levels of discomfort would also require me to get a blind date. Because I'm the biggest chicken shit when it comes to blind dates, I knew this would push my tolerance for horror to the max. So I immediately went to work on Craigslist and emerged with the fine-looking young man who, when compared with the rest, projected the most minimal date-rape vibe. "He looks like he parties superhard," a friend said. Aside from the guy in the red cowboy hat posing in front of his home bar, this one was the obvious choice. From then on he was referred to as the Date.

A neutral starting ground

The acid and the PCP never materialized, and everyone in the group contested the stink bomb plan with the totally pussed-out complaint that we might get arrested. So after considering a life of prison-bitchdom, Hank and I wimped out as well. While the stink bombs didn't happen, at least the Date showed up at our starting point: the Cinch, my favorite Polk Street bar and the perfect neutral environment for launching the worst night of our lives.

As soon as I stepped into the Cinch I began to panic. "I can't go through with the date," I sputtered to my friends. Initially, I thought the Date would provide the missing ingredient – he would throw the night off a bit and add a sense of randomness to the mix. But like most things in my life, the concept was funnier than the reality. I had pestered my date all month, making sure he wouldn't flake, but an hour before I was supposed to show up at the Cinch, I got cold feet. I should have followed my instincts.

I walked in and saw him at the bar but was unable to approach him for about half an hour. I cannot do it, no fucking way. He eventually figured out who we were and approached us. My blood pressure perked up, and my face turned bright red. I wanted to die. Although he was true to his photo and was actually good looking, he could have been Ralph Macchio and I still would have freaked.

Eventually I mustered up the courage to speak to him and launched into what was to be our only conversation of the night: "Look, this isn't a romantic thing; this isn't a date. But if you want to hang out with us you're welcome to." He agreed, but I developed a bitchy psychological wedge I was unable to dislodge all night.

High with high class

A limo is the imperative ingredient for a terrible night out. Not only is it mortally embarrassing, but it's also the consummate mobile prison. When everyone's taking separate cars, the pussiest people can cut out – the limo eliminates that possibility. Plus, the limo has the power to make everyone feel special, even if they are not. Exactly like us.

Thus we lined up a limo ride from the coolest, most tolerant company on earth, Limos Unlimited, and an extremely patient (and perhaps masochistic) driver named Ruben. According to Ruben, we trashed the limo more than anyone in the limo's history, but thanks to my friend Brenda, who engaged in New Age bonding with Ruben all night in the front seat, we didn't catch shit. Yet.

When our limo arrived at 10 p.m., the tone of the evening changed considerably. I noticed that those who thought of themselves as downtrodden bohos started to put on airs. "This beer is warm!" complained B.M., who considers himself to be the quintessential undergroundster. "Tell the driver we need ice." Poor little Inka got superexcited by the limo, mortifying us with her favorite quote of the night, "This is livin'! Aren't we livin'?" I began to fear the night would not end in disaster. Luckily this was not the case.

Judging by the name of the place, we figured Le Colonial would be ripe for a wretched experience. We imagined we would encounter rifle-toting Masterpiece Theatre-type imperialists who would force us to lick the floors before getting to our drinks. Unfortunately, the dimly lit comfort zone turned out to be the most pleasantly civilized part of the evening. After Aurora, the manager, showed us around the building's three levels, she brought us to a comfortable couch where we sipped cocktails and stared at all the people who looked as if they'd never bounced a rent check. Quickly we slipped into the fancy vibe and left disappointed that we weren't disappointed one bit.

We had an inkling that the Matrix, located in the Marina triangle, would prove to be as awful as we thought. But as fate would have it, our E hit as soon as we got there, and suddenly the vibe was on. We were fascinated by the sea of faces, which resembled the cast of Friends. They had identical blond haircuts, jaw lines, and Wet Seal-meets-Armani outfits, and all the women slugged down cosmos. Bernie said they looked as if "Sacramento had a jet-setting crowd." Cranky Hank noted, "They have these kind of empty souls, as if they're chasing the fierce party but don't know how. Is this how people have fun now?"

Oddly enough, I and the rest of the chicks were enjoying ourselves making a spectacle on the impromptu dance floor that we created. "This is fucking great!" we shouted as we shoved our asses in every direction. The DJ, who looked like a cross between a San Jose pimp and a Los Angeles CEO, seemed delighted by us. But things soured as soon as I lit a joint in the DJ booth. This alerted the staff to our illegal dancing practices, and we were quickly shuttled out. "This space needs to be clear!" shouted a security guard. We were sad to learn that not only is Gavin pissy with the homeless, but he's also opposed to a little innocent pussy to the ground. What gives?

So who's horrible now?

As soon as we pulled up to DJ Jeffrodesiac's Sex with Machines party at the Arrow, Hank had cut out, making a fast and furious run toward Market Street. He later confessed he knew things were about to get worse, particularly when I ran out of the Matrix proclaiming, "This place rules!"

It wasn't just the E talking, but as soon as we stepped into the Arrow we knew this was the finest party on earth (at least that's how we remember it) – and not at all a part of our horrible itinerary, because by this time we were too gone to care. The music was fierce, the crowd was all worked up, and the Pet Shop Boys were getting all crazy in the back. So we strolled right up to the front of the dance floor and unknowingly began to piss everyone off. Inka nearly tipped the turntables over, and Bernie started sifting through the DJ's record box and later accidentally turned the volume off completely. Were we simply having fun, or were we the living embodiments of terror? The line was too blurry to tell.

Leaving the Arrow, the first thing I noticed was Brenda, her long blond locks flying in the wind, in the front seat of the limo. What the hell? Ruben and she drove like mad around the block one more time and screeched to a halt in front of the Arrow. "Get in, bitches!" she shouted. With Brenda sitting in the front seat, all bets were off.

We were about to head over to Harry Denton's Rouge, but suddenly I was hit with a huge dose of sap (gee, I wonder why) and made an impassioned request that we drive across the Golden Gate Bridge so we could gaze across the water at Vista Point. But first we took a detour up Haight Street to pick up B.M.'s lady friend, who immediately informed us that she was "totally cracked out – I'm serious." Way to go.

Now that the rest of the freaks were in the car, we headed across the bridge with Brenda still up front. B.M. wouldn't stop calling me a crazy bitch, so to prove him wrong, I grabbed a champagne glass, cracked it on the roof of the limo, and shoved the broken stem in his face. The Date looked particularly surprised. Vern wrestled me to the floor of the car and grabbed the broken glass, panting, "For god's sake, Amanda, what are you like?"

At Point Vista we were silent for a good three seconds as we gazed upon the gold sequined-dotted sky. "Fucking shit!" B.M. screamed, falling off the roof of the limo with Ms. Cracked Out. They stumbled to the ground and continued to wrestle. As this was happening, I was busy leaping down the hill beyond the fence with Miguel. He grabbed me and together we fell, shredding our legs along the way. We scaled a fence dividing the bridge from Point Vista and somehow decided the area on the other side was enemy territory. Clinging to the wire fence, we tried to spit on enemy lines but had such bad cotton mouth we couldn't muster up any saliva.

A rude awakening greeted us back at the car. "Shut the fuck up everyone!" Vern screamed as we sat in the car. Two National Guard troopers were standing behind us with enormous rifles.

Millie, who had been pissing on the limo's hubcap, was the first to encounter the guards. "Hello there!" she cried, pulling up her pants. "Are you the guys who protect us from terrorist attacks?" The guards nodded. "So are those guns real?" she continued, at which point Brenda shouted, "Millie, get in the goddamn car now." And against the laws of nature, the night went on. And on. I wish I could tell you the rest, but I don't remember.

Cinch. Daily, 6 a.m.-2 a.m., 1723 Polk, S.F. (415) 776-4162. Le Colonial. Bar open daily, 4:30 p.m. (closing time varies), 721 Sutter, S.F. (415) 931-3600. Limos Unlimited. (650) 340-1283. Matrix. Daily, 5:30 p.m.-2 a.m., 3138 Fillmore, S.F. (415) 563-4180. Sex with Machines. Saturdays, 10 p.m.-2 a.m., Arrow, 10 Sixth St., S.F. $3 (415) 255-7920.