Men, admit it. You have all done it. Each and every last one of you has been a victim of mistaken identity. Blame it on the slimming black outfit, the push-up bra, your beer goggles, that mask she was wearing … regardless, you have all taken home what you thought to be a modest seven and woke up with your arm half asleep under the head of a two (and that’s being generous).

Because I care about you all, and I don’t want you to have to go coyote ugly on anyone (I like my men with two arms, thank you very much) I have decided to reveal the secrets that will allow you to avoid waking up next to Randy Johnson’s twin sister.

I welcome you briefly into the minds of female club goers and bar rats everywhere. Spot any of these tell-tale signs, and be warned: it is likely these girls are hiding something. Although there are exceptions, the rules go generally as follows.

The mini skirt
During my first week in college, some plastered wannabe frat-boy douche bag told me I had great legs before he took me back to his dorm room and pummeled me with his roommate awake in the bottom bunk. Six years later I continue to wear the same skirt every time I go out for the faint possibility he might call, even though I spent the entirety of my four years in college living off pizza and beer and have thus acquired an impressive set of cankles.

I am most likely wearing a thong as well, because it really gets me going when guys try to look up my skirt as I walk upstairs or accidentally let their wandering hands slide up my bare ass cheeks while we grind on the dance floor. I’ll also inevitably fall because of the ugly high heels I’m wearing that match the skirt just so, and flash everyone. I’m a regular good old time.

Flip-flops*
I am a reformed hippie. I probably still wear patchouli oil and have a mild aversion to showers. When we hook up you will notice my legs feel like Astroturf, my pits are like furry little bunnies, and I have a bush big enough for Kirstie Alley to hide in (pre-Jenny Craig).

*This only applies to girls seen wearing flip-flops in clubs/bars. At beaches they are acceptable, unless accompanied by one of those white seashell anklets.

Excessively low-cut necklines
Look at my boobs- aren’t they great? I am insecure about the rest of my body, which is most likely chubby, flabby, gawky, bony, scarred, or severely burned. I am trying to help you out here, buddy. See, when your friends ask you what the fuck you were thinking when you thought it would be a good idea to nail me in the back of your Honda, you can just say, “Dude, did you see that rack?”

However, beware. In many cases they’re not my tits at all, but rather two Victoria’s Secret gel-filled bras.

Shirts with sequins or sparkles
Please, please don’t look at my busted dog face.

Turtleneck sweater
I am too good for you. You shouldn’t even be looking at me. I only do long-term relationships. You have no chance to get in my pants tonight... unless you tell me you love me, share a tragic life story that makes you cry, or use that one-liner from Jerry Maguire.

I will cry the first time we make love, and I expect you to ask me to marry you within three months of dating. I will be on top for some special occasions, but for the most part I like it missionary, so you better get used to making prolonged eye contact with me instead of picturing Scarlett Johansson with your balls on her chin before you blow your load.

Oh and just for the record, I will never suck your dick. The good Lord told me it was wrong.

Any heel over 3 inches
I am short, and it makes me feel inferior to some men and most women. Most likely I am a bitter hater of all taller women, especially those who are better-looking than me. When we hook up, I will feel the need to make you feel as pathetic and insignificant as I do, so I will tell you that your dick is small and ugly, and that the sex sucked. If it’s a really bad night, I may even tell you I faked that over-the-top screaming orgasm.

Huge gaudy necklaces
Please, please don’t look at my busted dog face.

Tummy baring tops
Us chubby girls really like to show our bellies. I just lost five pounds by switching to low-fat cheese on the mayonnaise-laden, dressing dripping, butter toasted sandwich I get on my lunch break every day.

Look, can’t you see my abs through these three layers of cottage cheese? That’s because I do 30 sit ups every day while I watch “Sex in the City” reruns and think about how I am going to have a tiny waistline and be a dirty, dirty whore just like Samantha.

I’ll be sure to give you a nice view of my Jello-y goodness when I plop my jiggly ass right down on your semi-erect whiskey dick and bounce away like a deranged rabbit. Imagine a naked Nicole Ritchie (pre-rampant coke habit) on a pogo-stick.

TOO Tight black pants
I am definitely over the age of 28. I am/was a stripper, shot girl, belly dancer, Lindsay Lohan or had some other job that allows girls to make money off their mediocre to good-looks.

I don’t work out or eat healthy because I don’t have to; my body is hot, thigh cottage cheese or not. And I don’t know why girls don’t wear tight, Lycra blend black pants circa 1997 anymore. Maybe it’s because they only look good on me.

I date a lot. I think it’s because I have a dick sucking face. Actually, no, I know why: I am just that fucking hot. In fact, I will probably make you lick my Lady Bic butchered twat for a good hour, because I deserve it.

The fake designer handbag
What are you talking about? My bag is not fake. And the only reason you might think so is because that girlfriend of yours who has much better taste than I pointed and laughed.

Who cares if my bag has a lopsided pattern, a broken strap and is made of PVC and cardboard? Having the Gucci symbol plastered all over me automatically makes me hotter than any other chick in this bar, even Mischa Burton over there.

I tend to make it a point to set my bag directly on the bar as if to say to the bartender, “serve me first, I have money,” when in reality all I really have is a secretarial job that pays peanuts because of my two digit IQ, a fake leather wallet with $17 in it, and the propensity to tip poorly.

I may agree to go home with you tonight if you pretend to notice my bag. When we get back to your place, I’ll let you fuck me to your hearts desire while I lie on my back, expressionless like a cold dead fish, and fantasize about the Louis Vuitton luggage set I will make you buy me. That way, when I leave you for a man with more money I will have room to take all my other fake crap that is cluttering your apartment in addition to all of your valuable possessions.

But don’t look so sad! Just think - you’ll still be better off than that poor Asian immigrant who slaved away in the sweltering heat of NYC’s Chinatown to make my fake bags.

Clown Make-up
Please, please don’t look at my busted … Okay, well if you have to, at least I have three tons of Clinique and the nine beers you drank between you and my real face. Just do me a favor and try to avoid vomiting directly on me when it’s all worn off and you wake up next to Alf in the morning.