[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though some are WAY worse than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

By now you’re almost half way through Winter Break. You’ve got the major holidays behind you- Christmas eve, Christmas day, New Year’s- and that means pretty much all scenarios involving getting drunk with your family have expired. How’d you do? Make it through with minimal blows to your self-respect, pride, and squeaky-clean image?

If you’re like me and live in a house of crazy, you hit the bottle. Hard. And so did your mother, father, nineteen year-old sister, great aunt, bizarre gay uncle, both grandparents, and that random cousin you think is hot (but he’s only like…a third cousin through a second marriage, so it’s okay).

I suppose this submission isn’t so much a “Morning After” as it is a “Week After,” because let me tell you, the occasions on which I embarrassed myself this holiday season were hardly contained to one evening. Sure I could pick one moment to elaborate on, like when my mother explained to her sisters that all the nice boys at school were so interested in me. Of course I had to open my mouth (full of wine-stained teeth) to correct her. The “nice boys” are only interested in one thing. And I just happen to do that one thing really, really well. Then, naturally, I thanked her for giving me so many popsicles as a kid because I sincerely believe that’s where I get my technique.

I could also tell you about how I referred to the lemon curd as “funky jizz” or told grandma she shouldn’t be having sex now that her hip is acting up. But those are mild slips of the drunk tongue.

I might enlighten you on how I cried as I held my baby nephew because, and I quote, “I just wanna baby! Men don’t want me, lesbians probably don’t want me. Should I adopt? No, no. They’ll say I’m a deadbeat mom in the making. And so I’ll end up forty and alone. Single. So single. And I can’t even have cats because I’m allergic! The cats don’t even love me! Ohmigod what am I going to do!?” But I won’t tell you about that because I was slurring and I might have spilled my wine onto the baby’s lap…and that just reflects poorly on me.

How about when I tried to make out with the aforementioned hot not-through-blood cousin? Yeah, you’re not getting that one out of me.

Needless to say, 2011 is welcoming me with AA meetings, family counseling, and a bevy of apology notes. Hope you fared at least a little better. Happy New Year!

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Everyone’s got a morning after story (though some are WAY worse than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I was one of the good kids in high school. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do drugs. And my close friends were the same way. During my senior year, my best friend’s parents went out of town and left her in charge of the house. Naturally, she decided to have a party. In our minds, that meant inviting some boys over and hanging out. Not your typical “my parents are out of town” rager, to say the least.

So at 8pm that night, I told my parents I was sleeping at her house and headed over. When I got there, the other 6 or so people had already arrived, including our friend Jordan who was home from his freshman year of college for the weekend. And with him, a “cool new thing” he tried the weekend before.

“Dude, you just mix Robitussin and orange juice and it’s the coolest thing ever. And it’s not like drugs so it’s legal and you won’t get in trouble. But it’s really fun. I did it and was just, like, so happy for, like, 4 hours. Then it goes out of your system.”

He made it sound so fun, so easy, so consequence-free. Plus, being that I’d be heading off to college myself the following year, I thought I should try it. Explore my horizons a bit. So Jordan mixed the concoction for 4 of us (the other 2 were lame…or as I later found out, the smart ones) and we drank up.

At first, everything was fun. Especially riding down the stairs on my butt. So fun, in fact, that I did it over and over and over again for 3 hours. I also enjoyed spinning in circles, touching the walls, and staring at the carpet. Before I knew it, 6 hours had passed. Turns out, that whole “only lasts 4 hours” thing only pertained to Jordan, a boy who had a good 50 pounds on me.

I was still feeling light, free, like was inside a video game, when 2 a.m. rolled around. I threw myself onto the ground for a little “resty time” when I heard what sounded like a sprinkler going off. I shot up and followed the sound to the kitchen. That’s where I found the my friend Mark, covered in his own puke. Confused and slow to register anything due to the obscene amounts of cold meds in my system, I looked around the kitchen. There was throw up on the walls, on the floor and on the ceiling. Turns out, Mark was also enjoying a little circle spin when his body decided otherwise. He kept spinning and the puke kept spewing.

I started laughing uncontrollably.

“OH MY GOD!” My sober friend screamed. “MY PARENTS ARE GOING TO KILL ME.”

I couldn’t help it; I continued laughing.

The next thing I remember, my friend was on her way to Walmart for supplies “to mop the ceiling” and I was on the floor of the bathroom, eyes completely dilated, having completely missed the toilet as I attempted to pee. Getting a little nervous (“am I gonna be like this forever?!?”), I got a blanket and attempted to sleep off whatever was going on in my body. Unfortunately, as soon as I closed my eyes, I began having nightmares that a gospel singer (yes, a gospel singer) was trying to kill me.

I guess I eventually passed out because the next thing I remember was light pouring in the living room windows. I ran to the bathroom to check my eyes and make sure I wasn’t totally messed up anymore. Thankfully, the nightmare was over, the puke was cleaned from the kitchen and all was back to normal.

That is until I came down with a nasty cold the following day and my mom brought me a bottle of Robitussin to help with the symptoms….

Never. again.

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I saw him at my first sorority mixer. He was the social chair of his fraternity and from the moment he checked my name on the guest list, I was in love. He looked dreamy in his designer jeans and flip flops, his hair perfectly floppy. And he knew my name. Well, at least for that moment.

I spent a year cyber-stalking him, convincing my sorority to plan more events with his house and then pussying out whenever I had the opportunity to talk to him. He was older, wiser, and definitely a highly sought after guy campus wide; there was no way he’d ever notice me.

And then, like a gift from heaven, we ended up in a summer term class together.

The class was small, only 30 people. When I walked in the first day (looking like a hot, sweaty mess thanks to my crappy house’s lack of A/C) and spotted him, I could barely contain my excitement. Finally! An excuse to talk to my knight in khaki cargo shorted armor. If only I didn’t have pit stains…

He looked up at me and waved (OMG OMG OMG He recognizes me!). I waved back, then walked to his side of the room and sat down. We ended up talking for most of the class (at least when the professor wasn’t droning on about how “summer term is not some blow off” and listing off all the group assignments we had coming our way), then did so again the next day. And the day after that. He Facebooked me. I Facebook-stalked him. He invited me to a house party he and his “boys” were having. I jumped around my room in my underwear and immediately started planning my cute-but-not-too-over-the-top outfit for class the next day.

Two weeks later, when the first (of many) group projects was assigned, he asked if I wanted to work with him. It took every fiber of my being not to jump up and scream.

That weekend, we decided to meet up at my place to start researching. My roommate had friends from home taking up every inch of common space in our house, so McDreamy and I hunkered down in my room. More specifically, on my bed, as there was really nowhere else to sit. Laptops in hand, we got to work. Then took a two hour break to shoot the sh*t. Then did some more work.

And then, before I knew what the hell was going on, my laptop was on the floor and we were making out like 7th graders in a bar mitzvah coat room.

Things started to heat up so we pushed the textbooks and pens off the bed (after I got stabbed in the leg) and got to it. My shirt came off. His shirt came off. I threw it on the floor, pushed him on the bed and jokingly jumped on top of him.

“Ouch,” he pulled away. “What is digging into my back right now?” He reached behind him to find the painful offender. And when he finally got it, I was mortified.

There, in his hand, was my vibrator.
My small, pink vibrator.

The room got painfully silent. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t form words. The guy I was in love with for over a year, who was finally IN MY BED (topless) and KISSING ME (topless), was now holding a my vibrator and staring blankly at me.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out. I wanted to believe that maybe he thought it was a neck massager. But of course he didn’t. He knew exactly what he was holding in his hand.

After what seemed like 13 hours of silence (but was probably more like 13 seconds), he started laughing. Like, really laughing. So hard that I had to get off of him… then curl up in the fetal position next to him.

All I could think about was how I was going to have to do the entire group project by myself because I couldn’t face him again. Or, worse, have to withdraw from the class and take it again the following semester. Or maybe even transfer schools to the other side of the country.

But it turns out none of that was necessary, because the next thing I knew McDreamy was kissing my back. And four weeks later, despite that little snafu, we were officially dating.

Yeah, it wasn’t my finest moment (and I’m probably not gonna share that story with the grandkids), but at least we got the embarrassing moment thing out of the way early on.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (some are more traumatic than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

After months of leading me on, the boy I was falling in love with decided to hook up with one of my hall mates. I probably wouldn’t have even found out had I not woken up early that Saturday morning to go for a run…and found him walking down the hall with his shirt inside-out and his shoes in his hand.

I said nothing, just walked by him and ran down the stairs. It wasn’t until I was a mile into my run that I sat down and cried. A big cry. A snot down the face cry. And just as quickly as it came, it was gone. I wiped my nose on my wife beater (which I promptly threw in the garbage when I got home), got up and ran back to my apartment building.

“We going out tonight,” I shouted to my roommate when I got back. “And I’m getting hammered.”

“Uh, OK.” She responded from under her covers. “I’m just gonna need a Gatorade first, but I’m down. What’s the occasion?”

“Ben’s an a**hole.” I sat on her bed and explained what I’d witnessed that morning. She didn’t seem surprised – she’d never liked him – but she supported me anyway. An hour later, we were on our way back from the grocery store, trunk full of Jello shot ingredients.

By the time we made it to the bar that night, our mouths were red from Jello and our minds were blurry from multiple rounds of Franzia pong. So when I spotted Ben across the bar with his friends, I wasn’t sad. Instead I decided I’d ignore him (and by ignore him I mean find someone hotter to go home with to make him jealous.) I made my way to the bar (for a water – yeah, it was that kinda night) when I saw a hot guy in a baseball cap.

“Who’s that guy?” I slurred to my roommate. But before she could answer me, I was already halfway over to him. Fast forward an hour and a few Jager bombs (why is it always Jager bombs with these boys?!) and we’re hailing a cab back to my place and I’m calling my roommate telling her not to come home. Only instead of calling Molly, I called Mom. At 1:00 in the morning.

I hung up as soon as I heard her voice, then promptly turned off my phone. I didn’t need her calling back while I was showing Hottie in the Hat my moves.

The boy and I eventually made it back to my place, cooked some Easy Mac on the stove (yes, I realize now that that was wrong…), then made our way to my room for a little somethin’ somethin’. Eventually, some time near 6 am, we finally passed out.

The next thing I remember, my door is being thrown open and my parents (!!) are standing at the foot of my bed…where I am lying naked….next to someone who’s name I can’t remember….who is also naked.

Yeah, let that one marinate.

Everything that happened next is a bit hazy but apparently this is how it all came to be:

I guess when I dialed “Molly” and got “Mom,” I attempted to hang up the phone but my drunk ass couldn’t hit the right button. Meanwhile, my mother, woken up at 1 am, hears nothing but “help” (which I presume I was saying to the anonymous boy) and a male voice before I hang up. She tried to call back – 11 times to be exact – but the phone was turned off. Expecting the worst, she woke up my dad around 3am and made him drive 4 hours with her to come to campus and check in on me.

Of course, the front door to the apartment was unlocked (woops?), making them more nervous, so my parents let themselves in and then made their way to my room to make sure I was OK.

Which I would have been, had they not showed up. I jumped under the covers, asked them to wait in the living room, and shooed the boy out of my apartment through the back door. Once I had collected myself and chugged a bottle of water, I joined my parents in the living room, ready to apologize one thousand times (and prepared to be completely cut off).

Only I didn’t have to. They were so happy I was safe, they hugged me tightly, thanked God I was OK and then invited me and my “Is that your new boyfriend??” out for breakfast.

And besides the obligatory “Please don’t ever scare us like that again,” we never again spoke of the awkward morning wake up call.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (some are more traumatic than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

After four long and frustrating years of sexual tension, my high school crush and I finally had our first hot makeout sesh the first week of college. That is if you consider making out with some nature special about tarantulas playing in the background to be hot. Regardless, it happened and I was oh so excited. I didn’t want to take things too far that first night, so I acted coy, pushed him away, buttoned up my shirt and left.

We spent the next week flirting on IM and, since he lived in the dorm next to me, running into each other randomly on the way to class. Ok, so maybe it wasn’t so random. Maybe I spent a lot of time outside hoping he’d walk by. Either way, he called me on a Friday night and asked if he could come over.

My roommate packed a bag for the night and shipped off to our friend’s futon down the hall. She was so excited for me, but even more excited to have her first official Sexiling. I, on the other hand, was nervous for the events to come. I had never really done much with a guy before that, so the fear of doing something wrong or, worse, letting him know how inexperienced I was took over. I paced the 10X12 room as I waited for him to call. I lit some candles then blew them out. I created a playlist to set the mood then deleted it. I changed my outfit 4 times.

And then the phone rang.

He was outside the side door of the building and asked me to come down and let him in. I took one last look in the mirror, gave myself a little pep talk (“You’ve practiced on a popsicle – blow jobs can’t be that hard!”) and ran down the four flights of stairs to let him in.

Somewhere around the second landing my stomach started to hurt. All my life my stomach was the first part of me to react to nerves, and at that particular moment, it was reacting with a vengeance.

“I’m going to crap my pants,” I thought to myself. “I can’t have him come to my room and then leave him there while I run to the bathroom to poop.” I had to take care of it immediately.

I ran (literally) to the public bathroom on the main floor of my dorm and made it just in time. The minute I sat down, my nerves exploded into the bowl. I probably could have and should have stayed in there a little longer, but I couldn’t make the boy wait forever. I cleaned up, washed my hands and wiped the sweat from my forehead.

After letting the boy into the building, we made our way back to the stairs to head to my room.
“Oh my god,” he said as we walked past the bathroom. “Someone should really do something about that smell.”

Mortified, I pushed him along, my stomachache returning. We eventually made it to my room where we put on the TV and snuggled in bed. That is, until I could hold it no longer and had to excuse myself to use the bathroom on my hall.
When I came back, green in the face, I told him I wasn’t feeling well and sent him back to his dorm.

My roommate slept down the hall that night while I slept alone with a heating pad on my stomach. I didn’t experience my first real college hook up and she didn’t get her first real Sexile. She was poopiled.

I poopiled my roommate.
Totally pathetic.

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Every time my roommates and I have a party we tape our kitchen cabinets shut, empty out the fridge and hide all of our food in our locked rooms. We want to protect ourselves from those random drunk idiots that may come through and steal everyone’s sh*t, eat all their food and make a big mess.

A few weeks ago, I realized I was that random drunk idiot.

Bored at home after 6 weeks of summer with the parentals, a bunch of my friends decided to make the 45-minute drive back to campus for the night. One of our friends was still living up there and taking classes, so we decided to party and crash with him. It was your typical night full of drunken shenanigans: we chugged 64-ounce Long Islands on an outdoor patio, danced in a sweaty basement bar with no windows, then stumbled down the street with nowhere to go.

We were standing on the corner in front of our favorite liquor store where we had just purchased 6 Boones Farms and a 30-pack of Natty Ice (and I pocketed a bag of PB M&Ms….) when a party bus pulled up. We didn’t know where it came from, we didn’t know why it was there, but it was $5 to get on, the guy would take us anywhere we wanted to go, and when the bus stopped at the corner we watched a very drunk girl fly forward and tumble to the ground as Lady Gaga blared from the speakers…

Duh, we got on.

I had no idea where we were going, but one of my friends informed me of some party our friend’s (who was not there) little brother was at. “To Little Smith!” we screamed. And to Little Smith we went.

When we filed off the bus and into the house party, there weren’t many people around and we know no one but Little Smith. (It was less a “party” and more a “come over and drink in my living room” sorta sitch.)  The three girls lounging on the couch on the porch informed us that they had just ordered hot wings and got too many so we were free to get some from the kitchen if we wanted. And that is when things began to take a turn for the worse.

My friends Stephen, Maggie and I stumbled through the living room and into the kitchen. While Stephen started nom nomming on wings, Maggie and I went in search of something tastier. There was no one else around and the freezer wasn’t taped shut (“Clearly they are just ASKING us to open it!”) so we opened it up and – ahhhh – found a box of Bagel Bites in the door. But not just any Bagel Bites – PEPPERONI BAGEL BITES. I couldn’t control myself. I was so excited I could pee. We grabbed ‘em, pulled back the top, popped those badboys in the micro and counted down the 3 minutes until those little pieces of heaven hit our lips.

Meanwhile, mouth on fire, Stephen started popping around the kitchen looking for a cup for water. He was reaching into a cabinet with about two minutes left to go until Bagel bliss when a very angry boy (hereby known as VAB) walked into the room.

“What the f**k are you doing, dude?” VAB asked Stephen.

“Uh, no worries, buddy. I’m just looking for a cup for water.” (1 minute and 20 seconds left….)

“Why the f**k are you in my kitchen? What sorta a**hole are you, stealing our food? Who the f**k told you to come in here? Do I even know you? What the hell is your problem?” VAB puffed up his chest. (1 minute left…)

“Yo, yo. Relax, bud. I’m not eating your food. I just need a glass of water.”

As Stephen attempted to explain himself, Maggie and I stood next to the microwave watching the time tick down on the clock. We only had 45 seconds until our Bagel Bites were done (yay!), but that also meant only 45 seconds until the timer went off and this kid would probably beat the crap out of us with a spatula (boo).

The time kept ticking and VAB just wouldn’t give up. Feeling desperate, I pushed my boobs together and chimed in.

“We are sorry. He wasn’t stealing anything but we’ll go outside. So sorry. So, so sorry.” With ten seconds left to go on the microwave, I pushed everyone out of the kitchen and onto the porch. A feeling of relief washed over me and Maggie, but that feeling was soon replaced with an intense desire for our Bagel Bites.

“We cooked ‘em. We can’t just leave them in there!” I cried. Maggie agreed so we came up with a plan to procure the BBs without VAB finding out. Maggie snuck into the house under the guise of going to the bathroom, tip-toed into the kitchen, snagged the Bites out of the micro and covered them in paper towel before shoving them in her purse. There was a little snafu getting out (she thought she found a backdoor but it was really a bedroom door, in which 2 people were getting it on), but she eventually made it back to the porch unscathed.

Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for the Bagel Bites. When we pulled back the paper towel to dive into our snack, the cheese and pepperoni went with it. We ate them anyway, very quickly, and were swallowing the very last bite when VAB walked onto the porch and discovered the empty box on the ground.

“RUN!” I screamed.

I was halfway down the block, the rest of the crew behind me, when I heard VAB scream.

Needless to say, we never partied with Little Smith again. But it was worth it; never again have little frozen bagels tasted so good.

Nowadays things sure have changed. Replace an AIM sesh with a hungover brunch recap story and the movie theater make-out with a trip to the closest pharmacy for plan B. These are the bases redefined for our college years.

First Base – Everything is getting hot and heavy on the dance floor and the guy  (Matt? Brett? Pat?) you’ve been dancing with for the past hour suggests you step outside for some fresh air. And in this scenario “step outside for some fresh air” means let me suck your lips off on the front porch while we pretend like there’s not someone passed out in his own vomit next to us. Hands and tongues are flying everywhere and at some point you make the call that it’s totally appropriate to let him unhook your bra, just for a second, like a minute, okay…where is your bra?

Second Base – Wow! You really like this guy ( and you’ve narrowed his name down to Brett or Brad) and you’re ready to take things off the front porch and into a bedroom. But you both live at least a five minute walk away and you’re both way too into each other and at peak drunkness to waste any time walking. So what’s a classy girl to do? Time to head down to the ole frat house basement. After all, you’re totally not into PDA and you would rather have some privacy when he jams his hands down your pants and play the whole “does this feel good when I do this? What do you mean it’s not supposed to feel like a tampon is getting stuck up me?”

Third Base – Okay, you just opened your eyes for a second and spotted ten or so decrepit looking pledges lying around on the basement floor. Not exactly setting the stage for romance. You grab his hand and before you know it you’re on his bed. Time sure flies when you spend the whole walk making out and ignoring comments like “you remind me of my ex-girlfriend.” You ask him if he has a condom and he slickly gets one out of his wallet, rips it open, and struggles for ten minutes to put it on. And then like that it’s over and you hear his roommates coming home. He asks if you want to hang out, get high, and watch South Park. It’s kinda sweet but you’re pretty sure you’re going to throw up and you’re pretty sure your beer goggles are wearing off fast. Like, since when did he have a full-grown beard?

Home – And now it’s time to go to home base. Literally, you’re walking home. Although walking is a strong word for what you’re attempting to do so it only makes sense to take off your heels. A little broken glass never killed anyone. You spot another girl across the street walking with her shoes off. You raise your fist in solidarity because you know exactly where she’s been…but look away once you realize that it’s your sociology T.A. It’s been another great night out at college and you can’t wait to tell your friends that you got a home run. Seriously, you should start running because the sun is coming up and you will not want to see what you look like in daylight.

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It all started with lime green spandex shorts. I thought they were the perfect thing to wear to the Glow theme party. And the St. Patrick’s theme party. But those lime green spandex shorts really only spelled trouble for me.

The first time I wore them, I ended up leaving Crack House (yes, it is as disgusting as it sounds) with a junior with whom I bonded over our shared love of Natty Ice. Coincidentally, he had a ton of it in his apartment. The next morning, I woke up with a throbbing headache on a bottom bunk. I barely remembered the night before, except that I had gotten horribly sick in his bathroom. Not. Cute.

Eventually, after about an hour of me lying stock still next to him in his bed, he woke up and escorted me to the door. And then I realized I had no idea where I was or how to get back to my dorm. Reluctantly, he agreed to walk me part of the way. After he left me, I proceeded to finish the walk to my dorm alone, at 11:30, ass glowing neon green like a beacon.

You would think that would have been enough to teach me a lesson. The lesson being: leave the spandex at home. Unfortunately, this was not the case…

Months later, I decided the shorts were the perfect thing to wear to a St. Patrick’s day party. I wore them this time with tights and rain boots (a really bad call, as it turns out). The night started out fun, but after doing many, MANY shots, everything went black. I woke up the next morning next to a boy I barely remembered meeting. He was business-like about the whole thing, checking his email and playing his favorite Simon & Garfunkel song before asking where my clothes were. I pulled on my neon shorts, rain boots, and a borrowed t-shirt, thanked the boy for his hospitality and exited the scene.

As I walked into the hallway, the neighbor in the apartment across the hall walked out with her laundry basket.

“Oh!” she gasped, giving me a once-over. My face flushed.
“Just heading home,” I stammered.
“Oh honey,” she said. “Don’t end up in this apartment again. I remember that night when you ended up with that guy upstairs and now this one… They’re not nice guys.”

It was then that I realized: the lime green shorts had led me to the same apartment building. Again! What are the chances? It was like those neon booty shorts had special magnets that attracted only boys in Apartment S.

I thanked the neighbor for her concern and bolted out of the building. And if that little interaction weren’t bad enough, that walk of shame was even worse than the first. The tights/rain boots left me looking completely ridiculous… and it was snowing.

At least this time I learned my lesson and threw those shorts away as soon as I got home. If you have a pair, I suggest you do the same.

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Freshman year actually scares me. Like, for real. The things I did make me wonder how I ever survived it. And here is a story that will make you wonder the same thing. This particular tale takes place on a Wednesday. The day before a big Philosophy exam. And after attending a ball game with some close friends (and overdosing on hot dogs and cracker jacks).

I don’t know if it was the extravagant, vibrant atmosphere of a baseball game, but my close knit group of friends and I came back to our dorms and decided the sky was the limit for us. It was time to drink. And the drink of choice?

99 Berries.

I know, the story should maybe end right now. 99 Berries on a Wednesday sounds lethal. But in a freshman mindset, 99 and Strawberry Ocean Spray might be the most beautiful thing known to (fresh)man. Not to mention the cute boys accompanying us on our journey to Drunk-ville. It just seemed right.

Something else seemed right. On account of my Philosophy exam the next day, and my roommate’s Spanish exam, we thought it would be a brilliant idea to study while drinking. Side Note: Never try this at home.  It never works, and when you start playing drinking games based upon how many times you read the word “Aristotle,” count on getting nothing done.

Anyway, the way we were taking shots you would think we had sprung for Grey Goose. And thanks to the combo of our drinking game and my philosophy notes, Aristotle was getting us pretty messed up. Meanwhile, while being located in a upper classman’s basement, there was a convenient pole that influenced some erotic dancing and the next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom with my friend, blood pouring out of her hand. A pole dance gone awry.

The two words to describe these goings on: hot mess. They really sum up the remainder of this evening. The attempted act of studying was blurred out and replaced by taking the role of Jenna Jameson. Between four girls, the 99 Berries emptied. And the last couple minutes of the evening were spent making out with one of my friends…after he had shoved his face in a birthday cake.

8 hours later...

My roommate shook me awake. I was topless. In my own bunk bed on campus. I had no idea where my philosophy notes were, and my test was in 20 minutes.

Later, I found out someone had vomited all over my Philo notebook.
Even later I got news that I received a B+ on the exam.

Work hard, play hard, baby.

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It was one of the first warm nights in a long time and everyone on campus was throwing impromptu house parties. I knew I’d be walking all over campus, so I ditched my plans for a dress and heels and opted for jeans and flip flops instead. I met up with some of the girls in my sorority and we headed out to one of the many parties of the night.

A few hours and about 8 games of beer pong later, we ended up at some friend of a friend of a friend’s house. Not one of the 4 girls I was with knew anyone who actually lived in the house, and after doing a few laps around the backyard realized that we didn’t really recognize anyone at the party either.

“Let’s just go inside, pee, and then we’ll move on to the next party.” Cindy suggested, and having already broken the seal long ago, we all agreed.

So we went inside. Most of the party-goers were outside watching girls in skirts do keg stands, but there was a small group of guys standing around the kitchen taking shots. We walked past them looking for the bathroom and that is when Cindy stopped and pointed towards the living room wall.

“Oh my god. LOOK WHAT THEY HAVE!” I followed her pointing finger (which was stained orange from all the festive Jello shots we’d taken at party numero dos). Up on the mantle in the living room was an “Elm St.” street sign. The same street Cindy and a few of the other girls currently lived on. “We need to steal that!”

The rest of the group drunkenly and excitedly agreed. We quickly filed into the bathroom to come up with a plan of action. The sign was perched pretty high up on the wall so whoever grabbed it had to be tall. Everyone looked at me and my 5’11 frame. I agreed to pull off the heist, but only if the other girls caused a diversion with the guys in the kitchen. And the plan was set.

We all peed (I mean, how often do you find a boy’s bathroom with both toilet paper and soap in college?!), held hands for some silent prayer, and moved out to perform Operation: Elm. St. The plan seemed totally foolproof…until we got back out into the living room and noticed it had filled up with people. We huddled together and discuss a new game plan. Feeling totally drunk invincible, I came up with a new idea. I sent one girl to the door, the others outside and then I just jumped up, tore the sign down and ran.

“RUN!” I screamed to my friends. We all started sprinting down the street, 3 dudes chasing pretty closely behind. Rebecca, up front, was a Cross Country runner in high school and led the pack. Me, my flip flops and the sign were in the back. I tossed my purse to one of the other girls to give me a bit more grip on the sign. I kept running.

“THEY’RE CATCHING UP! WE NEED TO LOSE THEM!” I screamed. And by “screamed” I mean “tried to scream through my heavy breathing.” Damn that whole “smoke when I’m drunk” thing.

Rebecca cut left and ran through some random backyards. We all followed. And then we were at a fence.  I looked back and it looked like the boys weren’t behind us.

“WTF, Becca? You want us to climb a f**king fence?” But she didn’t have time to answer, because we could hear the boys coming. The girls hoisted me and the sign up. I swung one leg over the top, then the other, then I jumped. I heard a loud ripping sound as I fell to the ground. It was my jeans. My favorite jeans. My jeans that were now missing the right butt pocket. But I didn’t care; I needed to get moving with this sign, and fast.

So I ran. And somewhere along the way, I lost a flip flop. I honestly don’t know where or how, but one minute I had it on my left foot and the next minute my freshly pedicured foot was hitting the pavement. But I kept running, one shoe and one pocket missing, until I got to Cindy’s house. I busted open the door and ran in. One by one the other girls followed. Laughing.

I was sweating. My left foot was dirty and bleeding. My favorite jeans were ruined. I had branches in my hair. And Cindy’s other roommates were looking at me like was a lunatic. But I got the sign. And the boys were nowhere to be found.