One night stands are fun…until you wake up next to a stranger who may or may not be Quasimodo’s long long half-brother. The conversation that was so easy to have last night is now going into awkward banter territory and you’re trying to figure out the coolest way to ask him if he wore a condom last night. Oh also, you have no idea where your clothes are located.

Think you’re the only one who deals with this? Think again and watch this video. Seriously watch it. I laughed outloud.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (some of which include less than stable lofts) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I consider myself a pretty honest person. I’m no Mother Theresa, but I don’t lie, especially to authority figures and people I need things from. Back in my sophomore year, I didn’t exactly live up to this creed and it came back to kick my butt. Hard.

Let’s go back to fall of my sophomore year, when my biggest problems were which Halloween party to go to and how to convince my boyfriend to dress up as a Disney prince.  After promising baked goods and undergoing a frantic search for final accessories, we were ready to make our rounds to the nearby apartment parties, ready to wow the crowd with our awesome outfits and get lots of Facebook-worthy pictures. I was on my game, almost.

Any of you who have survived a Halloween on a college campus know it is a mess of jungle juice, cheap shots and sloppy, unknown kids crashing your party. It’s a jumble of limbs and scantily clad co-eds who end up lost in the morning. As an experienced Halloween-er I thought that I would be good to go. Unfortunately my Prince Charming was not.

Fast-forward a few hours after we’d left the party and stumbled back to my dorm where we crashed from exhaustion, without enough energy to change out of our ensembles let alone have a little role playing sexy time. Suddenly, I was awoken to the sound of water and sat up to see him “relieving himself” in the corner of my bedroom.

“GO TO THE BATHROOM, CHRIS!” I screamed as I realized what was going on.

“I’m in the bathroom…I’m going…I’m going…” he mumbles, and I quickly drift back asleep.

The next morning, I woke from my slumber, and couldn’t look less like a princess.  After rolling around and moaning for awhile, I finally got out of bed and ran to my laptop, hoping someone has already updated pictures from last night. Only my laptop wouldn’t turn on. And it was sticky. And….OMG is that a puddle on my desk?

And then it all came together.

Chris.
Peeing.
Middle of the night.

ON MY LAPTOP!?

Needless to say, I freaked! Then Chris freaked. Then I freaked some more. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do without a laptop? AND WHO PEES ON A LAPTOP?

So I did what any college student would do – I cleaned up what I could (wearing gloves, obviously) and made an appointment at the repair center. Nervous and trying to come up with a not-so-embarrassing excuse for my problems, I walked right into the store and held up my computer, hoping the genius could bring it back to life. With a suspicious glance of one who knows, he gingerly opened my laptop and wrinkled his nose. “What happened?” He asked slowly.

“I…spilled lemonade on it!”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew how dumb they sounded. Lemonade? Why? Because it’s yellow? And sticky? Come on, they keyboard didn’t smell like fresh lemons….

The guy lifted the computer, inspecting it, then gave me a knowing look.

“Lemonade…OK. Well, unfortunately the computer is ruined. There’s nothing we can do about this…..lemonade damage.” He nudged it back across the desk, avoiding any direct contact. As I left the shop, dead laptop in a bag, I heard the entire staff bust out in laughter.

I learned my lesson about lying that day, and my boyfriend learned one too when I brought him the bill for a replacement. Halloween, you guys… no one makes it out unscathed.

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WTF fashion…did someone forgot a shirt?

40 dating mistakes I’ll never make again

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A sneak peek at Willow’s new single

Just another Hollywood break-up

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though most don't involve a large group of potential sorority sisters) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

Wine is cheap in Europe, super cheap. I made that discovery early on during my semester abroad, and took advantage of it during my spring break in Italy. As all college students know, boxed wine in the States is a great invention which allows for portable drinking, but this idea has been one-upped in Europe, with the creation of what my friends and I would lovingly refer to as “wine boxes.” One liter of “table” (ie. awful) wine in a pouch, with an oh-so convenient pop tab opening which allows you to reseal your wine and take it on the go! They’re adult juice boxes, with alarming consequences I would eventually realize.

One night, my friends and I decided to have an adventure and escape the stuffy hostel. Needless to say, we brought along our wine boxes, now complete with bendy straws to make our drinking experience that. much. easier. College students really do have drive and creativity when it comes to protecting their laziness.

I was feeling great after a meal of pasta and boxed wine. Maybe a little too great, since those straws are the last thing I remember until I was awoken by the bright rays of sun that only a hangover can truly appreciate. Looking over at my friends, I saw their shocked faces, and my stomach sank. Looking down I see that my new Roma tee shirt, that I had decided to wear to bed, was soaked in red wine. In fact, the entire bed was soaked in table wine. I glanced at the floor and saw the culprit: a large wine box was lying crushed in a pool. In my drunken stupor the night before, I had sat on my beloved wine box, that I had hastily left on my bed, consequently ruining the sheets, my new favorite souvenir t-shirt, and ensuring that I would never see my security deposit.

Think that’s bad? Throw in a broken phone, (who knows how?) a mega hangover that brought tears to my eyes, and a flight to Amsterdam leaving in an hour, having not yet packed. How I made it alive, I’ll never know, but that was the day I officially retired from wine boxes.

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It’s safe to say that my New Year’s Eve celebration got way out of control this year.

This year my college friends and I decided to go all out for the night. It’s our last year of college and we barely even talk to our home friends anymore, so it made perfect sense that we have a mid-break reunion in the big city. One of my friend’s aunt lives in NYC and she offered up her apartment for the weekend while she was away skiing with her family.

While we spent hours online figuring out travel arrangements and outfit choices, we never got around to actually planning our night. So when the clock start ticking on the 31st we had to go with the only thing we knew was actually happening. A friend of a friend of a cousin of a roommate of a Craigslist killer of a friend was throwing a party in his apartment and told us we were more than welcome to come. We’ve watched Sex and the City so we thought we knew what we were in for — a gorgeous, spacious apartment overflowing with booze and horny well-dressed men.

But when we got there, we immediately realized that we were completely wrong. The apartment was the size of my closet and all the glamorous guests (all 5 of them) were sitting on the couch ripping shots of Barton’s vodka. With our heels and clutches and booze-ready bodies ready to go, we realized that we had made a big mistake. So we did what any classy ladies would do. Took several shots extremely quickly and bounced. It was rude and uncouth and I would be embarrassed if that was the only that that happened during the entire night.

It wasn’t.

We got into a cab and told the driver to take us to his favorite bar in the city. He dropped us off on a sketchy street filled with dive bars and grunge music. Without any other options, we chose one randomly, went in, and start pounding back more drinks. My camera tells me I hooked up at midnight. My memory tells me he said he was 23. My friends tell me he very clearly said he was 33.

Next thing I remember is the bartender being all over me. I do, very unfortunatley, remember loving it. I felt chic and cool and so worldly getting all my friends free shots while the bartender and I played kissy face.

Then like a flash (yeah my memory is in flashes at this point) the bartender took me into the back of the bar, out of my friends’ eyesight, and made me touch his penis. Even in my drunken state I knew I didn’t want to do this so I pushed him away — and proceed to projectile vomit all over him and the bar. He went from lovey-dovey to “get out of my bar!” faster than I could round-up my friends and explain what happened.

We jumped into a cab and didn’t get more than a few blocks before my friend start yakking all over the  backseat. Luckily the driver only charged us A MILLION DOLLARS for the ride to get it cleaned up.

Thinking that all the excitement and disgusting behavior was done for the night, we got into our pajamas, and went to bed. As I drifted to sleep, I could hear my friend, sleeping upright in a chair” making weird “tsk” noises in her sleep. Precious, I thought.

Woke up the next morning and realized that those “tsk” noises were actually “I’m throwing up everywhere in this room” noises. There was barf everywhere. Beds, couch, chairs, wall. It was a disaster. And my friend who’s aunt lived there started (understandably) freaking out.

Without any other options but to get to work, we raided the cleaning closet and scrubbed the room down for hours. When we were done, it looked almost like new, and it seemed like a Febreeze factory. And this was all while I was completely hungover. And too broke (thank you cab fare) to even get breakfast.

Hands down, worst night of my life.

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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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I had the busiest semester ever in my college career because some genius (read: my idiot self) decided it was a good idea to take 18 hours.  And work.  And hold an officer position in my sorority.  Terrible idea in hindsight.

So needless to say, I rarely went out due to my hectic schedule.  Plus whenever I got home at the end of the day or when I had spare time, I wanted to spend it doing nothing and sleeping.  The weekends were a prime opportunity to rest for half a day before I had to start doing homework and writing papers for my classes.  But those few times I managed to go out, I made it count.  I really made it count.  Especially at my sorority’s last hurrah, the Tacky Christmas party.

If you don’t know what Tacky Christmas is then shame on you.  Basically everyone wears tacky sweaters that your grandma made you or wrapping paper dresses, or if you don’t celebrate Christmas, you put a Menorah crafted from pipe cleaners on your head.  I opted for a gigantic gift bag from Target, while my ex dressed up as a little kid on Christmas.  Oh yeah, did I mention I took my ex as my date?  Well, I did.  Don’t judge me.

Anyway, I figured as it was my last night out with my friends before finals, I should make the most of it.  The ex and I arrived at a pre-game that evolved into a full blown rager before we even made it to the bar.  Not only did I take an unknown number of peppermint patty shots (soooo good!), but I also finished a bottle of crappy champagne by myself.  I weigh 100 pounds, and hardly drank this semester.  You do the math.

We eventually got everyone to migrate to the bar, which was a terribly difficult task since we were having much more fun at the pre-party.  I was expecting to get big black X’s on my hands that night, but one of my friends happened to be working the door at the bar and gave beautiful, shiny wristbands to my ex and I.  Well, I successfully closed my tab after one beer.  See that?  I was responsible.  But then I stole the ex’s pitcher and drank half of it.

I don’t remember dancing on stage with the rapper.  Or grinding in my gift bag.  Or going home.  But from what I was told here’s what happened:

The ex drove me home and was going to stay with me to make sure I saw the next day (so sweet).   When we got to my apartment complex, I decided that I didn’t live on the first floor and ran away.  I hid under a stairwell for about ten minutes, and then I continued my adventure up to the third floor where two random guys were cheering me on as the ex chased me down.  Finally, he managed to catch me and carry me back to my apartment.  My roommate was still awake, which was good because I did everything she said and refused to listen to the ex.

After getting me into my pajamas, they tried to give me water.

me: “NO! It’s a Horcrux!”

ex: “What?!”

me: “It’s a Horcrux! You have to destroy it! Unless you’re Lord Voldemort…”

ex: “Babe, it’s not a Horcrux. Drink your water.”

me: “Obliviate!”

I don’t remember this conversation but since two out of three people do, I’ll accept it.  Apparently I continued to cast spells and begged for my roommate’s wand.  She decided I’d poke my eye out and told me it was at Olivander’s for repairs.  I was very upset about that.

Eventually, I got sick, drank the Horcrux water after it was destroyed, went to sleep, and had wonderful dreams that I was Harry Potter.

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I am currently studying abroad in an unspecified location in the world. We’ll just say… not in the U.S. (really narrowing it down there). My host university always organizes events at bars and such for students, but my roommates and I usually just pass on them because they just wind up being these huge all-American fests. But the other night we actually decided to go because this particular bar, in the red-light district, was serving unlimited free wine and beer between 9 p.m. and 10 p.m. and, honestly, who could pass that up?

We did our usual pregame before the bar and all 4 out of my 4 roommates wound up getting wasted. Literally, couldn’t stand up, needed-to-borrow-the-flip-flops-I-conveniently-had-in-my-purse wasted. Mind you, it was only around 8 p.m. We hadn’t even left the house and I was already fully concerned about my roommates’ well-being, mainly because bouncers in this particular city are extremely strict with blatantly belligerent people trying to enter into their clubs (I wonder why…).

But I was worrying for nothing. Somehow all of us managed to get let in and the real (free) drinking quickly began. After we all scurried over to the bar to grab some drinks I wound up chatting it up with an adorable American guy for a really long time while all my roommates disappeared into another adjacent room. I wasn’t too worried though; it was a pretty small place. Only when I finally made my way over there, let’s say around 9:30 p.m., 2 out of the 4 girls were missing.

The 2 girls I actually found (we’ll call them Christine and Ally) were pretty much too drunk to notice/care that the other 2 girls (Kaitlin and Jane) had vanished and were nowhere to be found. Soon after, Christine started making out with some short, relatively unattractive man (something extremely uncharacteristic of her) and Ally was on the dance floor with some guy.

I tried to awkwardly interfere and bother them a couple times about our lost roommates, but they just kind of told me to not worry about it. So, I went to find a quiet spot in the bar to call Jane, one of the MIAs. After I talked to her, I found out she decided to just up and leave for home without telling any of us. I kind of thought she sounded a bit strange because she wasn’t responding to most of my questions, but I (wrongly) assumed I just woke her. Ally then frantically grabbed me and told me we needed to leave because she just got a call from a nearby police station that said they were with our other lost roommate, Kaitlin.

I somehow pried Christine away from her man and the two of us wound up waiting up against this pillar in the bar while Ally quickly ran to the bathroom. I then noticed Christine’s eyes were kind of closing and she appeared to be taking a bit of a nap. The security guards were apparently not big fans of this kind of behavior because they kindly escorted her out of the bar. I obviously followed closely behind.

Once Ally met us outside, we took a cab to the police station, where we were told that the cops had already taken Kaitlin home.

So we grabbed a cab back to our apartment. Everything was going just fine until I felt a few wet drops hit me on both my neck and chest. At first, I assumed it was just rain or something (even though the windows weren’t open. I was full of all sorts of interesting assumptions that night). But then I saw Ally put her hand on Christine’s back as she opened the window.

Between that and the rancid smell, what was really going on was becoming all too clear.

The cab driver was surprisingly pretty cool at first and didn’t seem to mind that there was literally puke all over his backseat. Ally and Christine were also covered in quite a decent amount of it as well. Having just been splattered, I guess I lucked out. But as he finally realized what was going on, the cabbie mumbled something about a “cleaning fee for our troubles” and hiked the meter up to EIGHTY DOLLARS.

We all got out and were making our way down the street towards our apartment when Christine decided to just take her puke-covered dress off in public. She walked into our apartment complex in nothing but a bra and some lacy underwear. Fine, I guess; it was late and no one was awake to see the show. Only when we got to our floor, the elevator doors opened up to who else but two (fairly young, attractive) cops.

“What are you covered in?” They asked, eyes darting back and forth from my nearly-naked roommate to my covered in red-wine puke roommate.

I casually pushed Ally and Christine towards the direction of our apartment (while managing to get my hand covered in puke from Ally’s back) to try to keep us all out of any more trouble. I did my best to ignore my disgust and sweet talk the officers by saying something like, “Oh, you know. We’re fine! Long night. Uh… I’ll take care of them. Thanks for everything! Have a goodnight!”

We finally got into our apartment. There was glass shattered all over the floor leading to my bathroom and very few lights on (we later discovered this was Jane’s drunken doing). I took a peak into my bathroom and found Jane hovering over the toilet bowl while Kaitlin was safely tucked away in bed, courtesy of the fine police.

It was 11:15 p.m.

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For a long while (ahem, code for way too long) I dated a guy a little younger than me.  And by dated, I mean every Friday night, we would get together after an intense evening partying and make out like wild animals.

We were pretty serious about our business.  We would run off from parties, and cozy up in his car.  We would sneak into my apartment when the roommates weren’t home and make out on my dirty, toothpaste stained sink.  We would frolic through the side streets from parties, making out like bunny rabbits. We would rush up to the bathroom of any party and eat each others faces off. Anywhere we could go in “private,” we would go.

One morning, after a particularly awesome night with my fave younger man, I woke up pretty early to go to the bathroom.  My make out king was sleeping soundly, so I tried not to wake him as I crawled to my demise.  In the bathroom (which conjoined the only two bedrooms in our suite that we all shared), I was welcomed by a bodily fluid surprise.  The entire bathroom was completely painted in urine.   The walls, the ocean scene shower curtain, the toilet seat, the ceiling, the door, the towels, the everything. Covered in urine.

My eyes bugged out, and I stood frozen.  A girl absolutely could not make this happen with the constraint of having a va-jay-jay.  This was a complete man-made mess.  My angry roommate showed up on the other side of the bathroom and gave me a look I would imagine getting before my head was cut off.  Kevin showed up behind me and looked around the bathroom in embarrassment.  I looked up at him slowly and was face-to face with two hickeys the size of Texas.

My roommate snorted from the other end,

“You might want to get some concealer for those marks on your neck…oh and have fun cleaning this up.” Needless to say the romance fizzled after we spent 6 hours bleaching away the smell the his piss.

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Thanksgiving is a wonderful opportunity to come together with your family and give thanks for the abundance of gifts you’ve received over the seasons: health, happiness, togetherness, discovering that sandwich place on campus that’s open until 3a.m. on weekends.

For one night, calories (and there are many) don’t count.  There’s no guilt when reaching for that second piece of pie because you’re pretty sure your fat cousin Maggie is on her sixth slice.  Gravy is meant to be consumed over everything.  Thin slices of turkey are for novices, so you, practically a freakin’ pilgrim, want the whole dang leg.  Diets can resume tomorrow.

My favorite part of this sacred holiday, however, comes when the table is cleared and the family is passed out in the living room.  It’s a subtle tradition, but one that college students the country over take quiet pleasure in every year.  What am I referring to, you ask?  Well, it’s the “I’m home with nothing to do and so are you, so let’s do each other” booty call.

Don’t make like you don’t know what I’m talking about.  I saw you last year texting under the tablecloth, trying to be all sneaky.  So little Bobby Stewart from down the street grew into those ears just as he turned a very legal 18.  Or maybe Chris Philips, the quarterback who never gave you a second look, acquired a beer belly and doesn’t mind the more bookish girls anymore.  Fine, you’re no Heidi Klum.  Whatever.  He was still the most popular guy in high school.  And here’s your chance to show him what he was missing when he turned you down at prom.

I, myself, prefer to visit familiar territory.  And last year that territory took the shape of a very cute, very single, very ex-boyfriend.  It’s true.  We had dated.  For six months when we were 14.  What can I say?  There was some intense hand-holding, a few make out sessions, but not much else, and I needed to find out what I had missed so long ago.  I had, however, felt what he was hiding in his jeans, and let me tell you -  you would have been eager to finally jump on that, too.

So when I saw on Facebook that my first love was back in town for the holiday weekend, I sent him a little message.  Nothing intense, just a friendly “hey” and the suggestion that we get a drink after we were done with our families.  He took the bait, we exchanged a few more messages, traded current numbers, and made plans for a post-Turkey rendezvous at the local dive bar.

As the plates were being cleared from the feast my extended family had just devoured as though it were a temptation challenge on the Biggest Loser, I made sure I was wearing a pair of my good undies and that there wasn’t any food on my shirt.  (Hey, it happens.)  Having checked out all right in the mirror, I shot the dude a text saying I’d sneak out to meet him in fifteen.  I sprinted for my coat, told my mom I’d be back in a few hours, and made a dash for the door before anyone could ask me to take the dog out.

Success!  It was freezing out, but I decided to walk to the bar…it was only a few blocks away and I didn’t want to have to worry about driving after I’d had a few (hundred) drinks.  By the time I saw the warm glow of that PBR sign in the window, I wanted three things: heating, vodka, and sex.  In that order.  And the sight that greeted me made my heart leap with satisfaction.  My dashing man had finally ditched his bowl cut in favor of one of those delicious “It just does this on its own” looks that requires two hours and five separate products.  He was also sitting in the booth farthest from the door with a drink waiting for me.  My frozen arms could hardly extend quickly enough to give him a hug and shed a single tear of joy onto his cozy North Face.

We proceeded to sit and drink and complain about families until last call four hours later.  I was in one of those glorious hazes only brought on by copious amounts of alcohol and a supremely attractive drinking companion.  So, needless to say, it was a no-brainer when he asked if I wanted to go back to his parents’ pool house and watch a movie.  Of course!  I’d love to “watch a movie”!  “Movies” are my favorite!  Let’s watch three movies in a row!  Hell, let’s watch movies all night!

And that’s exactly what we did.  Except his parents’ pool house had no TV, so it wasn’t exactly what we did, but you get the idea.  We had a lot of sex.  Before I knew it, sobriety was creeping up along with the sun outside, my phone was vibrating indicating I had unread texts, and my beautiful boy was putting his clothes back on.  Sadness.  I flipped my phone open to find a series of increasingly dire texts from my mother (“Where did you go to?” “You okay?” “Seriously, are you dead?” “It’s almost dawn, where the hell are you, young lady!?” “I’m calling the police.”).

My wonderful night had turned into the morning of every parents’ worst nightmare (child abduction) and every child’s greatest challenge (the secret walk of shame back to your family home).  Seeing that I was awake, the boy stopped buttoning up his shirt and asked if I wanted to go for another round.  I looked into his hopeful eyes, patted him on the head, and promised to come back for seconds (well, fifths) over Christmas break.

With that, I made sure none of my clothes were on backwards and I set out to meet my fate.  I had an inkling they’d be waiting up, that’s what kind of parents I had.  The worried sort.  The ones who insist a sparkly cardigan isn’t a proper coat and who slip you Tums in front of your friends because they know you’ve got a sensitive stomach.  So when I opened the front door and found Mom and Dad nowhere in sight, I let out the biggest sigh of relief.

Throwing my coat down on the couch, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water and saw spelled out in refrigerator magnets a loving message from my dear mother: “Mornin, whore! xoxo”

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