Oh Sunday mornings. There’s nothing quite like stumbling out of a lofted dorm bed in last night’s stretched-out leggings, wayward bobby pins dangling from stringy bangs. You brush your teeth, rub the eyeliner crusties from your eyes and attempt to scrub off that not-so-fetching jungle juice stain on your chin. You’re still trying to get the mascara off your cheek when it hits you. Did you text him?

Toothbrush still tucked in your cheek, you fish your Blackberry out from under your pillow, detach it from the charger cord you expertly wove around your bedpost, and cringe. You definitely texted him. Twice. Okay, more than twice, but you essentially said the same thing every time, so it really only counts as twice right?

It’s tipsy texter’s remorse. Drunk dialing’s quieter, slyer little sister. Drunk texting is even more perilous, simply because your chosen target has a tangible message to remember you by the next morning. A tangible message that could very well be forwarded to all your mutual friends. And why stop there? Mutual or otherwise, they don’t have to know you to get a laugh out of your arbitrary capitalization and creative spelling.

And of course, no one ever just types out “hey giRll hye, i mis ur face!!!!@! mylife wud sukc witouh u!” Not even near incriminating enough. No, it’s always a text to that douche face ex-boyfriend you never really gave up on, or that dreamboat in your stats lecture whose number you covertly acquired under the pretense of a review session. And you always have a killer intro, like “jst so u know, i nevr do tihss,” or “HELLLLLLLLO! gues where I amm rhgit now?” or “i’m soooooio hppay u hireD me for the smmuer!” Read More »

My phone is ringing. Again. And again. And again. At 4 a.m. my ex calls, just to shoot the breeze. I have to get up for work in three hours! The six missed calls earlier were not one, not two or three, but four different friends calling to find out what I was doing that evening and if I wanted to go out for drinks.

This is not a weekend.

This is a Wednesday night.

It seems the time has come to prune some extraneous leaves on the branches of my social tree. My phonebook now includes some names to which I cannot even match the slightest hint of a face.

I have now reached the stage where I can answer the question, “So what are you up to tonight?” with, “Oh nothing,” and invariably end up somewhere loud at three in the morning stumbling into a dirty bathroom and incessantly repeating the line that never fails to impress: “I have work in the morning! I can’t believe that I am out doing this!” Read More »

The booty call.

There are two ways of looking at being booty called by the guy you like: as a score! or as an insult. A score because, of all the ladies he could have called, he’s chosen you, and maybe you’re totally up for a casual night yourself. And an insult because, he apparently doesn’t respect you enough to take you out with him, before the allotted booty call time, which normally takes place between the hours of 2 to 3 a.m. on Friday and Saturdays.

I myself was booty called this past weekend, and I had mixed feelings. Seeing his number pop up unexpectedly while I was out with my friends was definitely exciting. But, after his initial text, once I got him on the phone and heard his slurred, jumbled, drunken words that, when properly assembled asked, “Hey, what are you doing later – wanna meet up?” was a blow to the ego. Am I not good enough to hang out with, sans booty? Read More »