We just had the night of our lives, partying, dancing, letting go. Everything was great — amazing even — until we woke up. In the morning light our hair just wasn’t working, our clothes just weren’t fitting right, the bags under our eyes were larger than life and all we wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hide. Unfortunately, that usually isn’t an option. We have to put on our big girl panties, brave the world and go about our days like adults (or some version thereof).

But in moments like that, it’s good to know that we’re not the only ones who are suffering. Misery loves company right? Well in that case, even the rich and famous have days like that. Unfortunately for them, they usually have to relive those moments over and over again in the magazines and online. And due to a little research on my part, I found the perfect pictures to prove that on those kind of days, we’re definitely not alone.

[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.

[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

[Everyone’s got a morning after story and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

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.

One Friday night after a long week, a couple of friends who live in the next apartment complex threw a party. After getting all dolled up (and taking a few roomie shots), two of my roommates and I headed over with numerous handles of vodka, while the other two headed to a different shindig. Upon our arrival, my boyfriend met us there and all of us decided this was a night to get really, really drunk.

We started taking shots immediately as music blasted and the party got more and more crowded.  It was a small apartment with tons of people inside, making it hard to move around, so logically we just stayed put in the corner we were in… and continued to take shots…for a few hours. We eventually stumbled to another party where my boyfriend and I got separated from our friends and, feeling frisky, decided to just make our way back to my place for a little lovin’.

Things were goin’ well in the bedroom. And by well, I mean crazy. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got a little too much booze running through your system. We were in the middle of a particularly acrobatic situation when my boyfriend, who I must have been relying on to hold me up, suddenly fell off the bed. Naturally, I went down with him, slamming my head on my dresser along the way. I hit the floor as a searing pain shot through my head and my ear felt like it was on fire. I couldn’t move. I layed there in the fetal position moaning as my boyfriend freaked out.

“Oh my god. Oh my god! Are you OK?” He reached over and felt the side of my. “YOU’RE BLEEDING!”

I freaked out. My boyfriend pulled me up and we ran to the bathroom where I saw it. Blood. Everywhere: dripping down my neck, into my cleavage, all over his hands, streaked across his face.  We both sprinted upstairs (in our undies) to find someone to help us. We ran into my first roommate’s room and found her passed out next to her bed in her party clothes and shoes. Clearly she wouldn’t be much help. We shut the door and ran down the hall where, thankfully, my other three were awake. They all screamed when they saw me.

“Oh my god! What happened?!”

There was no time to explain so I grabbed a tank top from the floor, threw it on and followed my roommate (who deemed herself “sober enough” to drive to the campus Emergency Room) outside.

After getting yelled at for saying “sh*t” by a 250-pound attendant with a  “Gangsta Bitch” tattoo on her arm, I met with the receptionist who asked for my insurance card. In my drunken stupor (or maybe it was all that blood loss?) I handed her (in this order) my ID, my school ID, a Visa card, my Starbucks card and, finally, the insurance information she had requested. Then I made my boyfriend go buy me chips from the vending machine as I held an ice pack to my head (What? You think the drunk munchies go away when you’re bleeding from the head?). Eventually, it was my turn.

I layed on the table and held my boyfriend’s hand as the doctor, in a very thick foreign accent, informed me that my ear was basically split in half and I’d need 6 stitches. I mentally freaked out (I’d never had stitches before!), but was too drunk to do anything but lay there (in a tank top and a pair of plaid boy shorts that barely covered my ass, by the way) with my eyes closed and a stupid smile on my face. I barely felt a thing.

Finally, the night ended and my boyfriend and I went home.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
Unfortunately, having a bunch of black wires sticking out of your ear leaves people with a lot of questions. Especially my grandma, who, in addition to the rest of my family, I had to see when I went home for Thanksgiving only two days later.

It was a typical Saturday night: I got my drink on with my girlfriends at the bar followed immediately by late night pizza at Hungry Howies. Everything was going smoothly – I ordered my cheese sticks, grabbed a bottle of water and sat down to dig in – when a group of very drunk townies walked in. They were loud, obnoxious, and had some of the fakest blonde hair I’d ever seen.

I was sitting at my table minding my own business (read: smothering my breadsticks with ranch dressing) when one of the townies fell out of her chair and onto the floor, taking an entire pizza down with her.

Naturally, I laughed. I mean, it was funny. There was a trashy girl on the floor covered in pizza. Anyone in my situation would have done the same. But apparently Pizza Townie’s friend did not agree. She jumped out of her seat, ran over to my table and got in my face.

“What? You think that’s funny?” She barked.
“Yeah,” I giggled. Her nostrils were flaring and she had really big biceps – she could most definitely kill me without breaking a sweat – but I couldn’t stop laughing.
“You think that’s funny?!” She barked again. Even though I’d clearly already answered.
I attempted to stand up and make myself more clear before my friend chimed in.
“I’m sorry. It’s fine. It’s not funny. Sorry.”
Seemingly satisfied, the girl walked away and sat back with her friends. I continued on with my breadsticks. Then I looked over, saw the girl wiping tomato sauce off of her white pants (yes, white pants in December) and broke out in fits of laughter once again.

And Pizza Townie’s friend was back in my face.
“You know, bitch, some girls do go out. And some girls do get drunk. And they may even fall off their chairs, BITCH.”
“Yeah, and some girls do have really bad highlights,” I muttered under my breath. Only it turned out it wasn’t under my breath, because the next thing I know I felt a hand (and five fake nails) make contact with the back of my head.

A chunk of breadstick flew out of my mouth and landed in my ranch dressing. I stared in front of me; my friends’ faces were frozen in horror.

“What? You gonna get up and fight me, or are you just gonna sit there and eat your garlic, cheesy breadsticks?!” She screamed.
“There’s no garlic on this bread,” I answered. (Yes, I realize now that this probably wasn’t the correct response, but I wasn’t in the right state of mind. And I take my breadsticks really seriously.)
“What you say?” She screamed.
“I said, ‘THERE IS NO GARLIC ON THIS BREAD.’” I stood up. My friends stared at me, unsure to laugh or call the police. But there was no need; sensing danger, the 16-year-old pimple-faced pizza boy hopped over the counter and pulled us apart.

“Maybe you should leave,” he squeaked.
Blondie wasn’t moving so he grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the door.  When he finally got her outside, she pulled the door open and screamed, “Watch your back, bitch! I’m gonna f**k you up.”

I sat down with my friends and we laughed till we cried. Mostly because I was so scared I peed my pants a little. Then we discussed the odds that the girl was packing heat and waiting for me outside to indeed “f**k me up.” We drunkenly decided it would be safest to call a cab for the 3-block walk back home and have it pick us up out back. I ducked low in the back until we pulled up to our house.

Fortunately, I survived the night. Unfortunately, I can now only indulge in my late night breadsticks via delivery. I’m not risking running into that motley crew again; I spent way too much on this nose to have it broken by a pair of Revlon Press-On nails.

As soon as I got to college, I started dating a guy who was a junior. Martin* wasn’t my typical type (basically, he was a lot less attractive, motivated, and thoughtful than what I’m used to) but I decided to give him a shot anyway. I was the typical nervous freshman and I think I subconsciously felt like he had knowledge that could make my transition into college a little easier.

Plus, who doesn’t want to date an older man?

We dated for almost a year, but things started falling apart when we went home for the summer. We fought all the time over the tiniest things, and the fact that my parents and friends absolutely hated him didn’t help. But I couldn’t stay away! When we got back to school, we would meet secretly; I couldn’t let anyone know that we were still seeing each other (and seeing a lot of each other, if you know what I mean) because they would have all been really pissed off. And I just didn’t care to deal with that.

One night, I sneaked Martin into my room and we got down to business. The next morning we woke up early and  I shoved him out the back door; I didn’t want anyone to see him! I went back to my room and started making the bed.  As I pulled back the covers I noticed some brown marks on my sheets. I love chocolate so I thought maybe I had somehow smeared some in my bed during a late night Reese’s binge.

Not really thinking, I bent over and sniffed the stains.
…and almost hurled.

That was not chocolate. Not at all.
Somehow, there were skid marks in my bed. Being an obsessively hygienic person, I knew Martin had to be the culprit. I mean, I know how to wipe my own ass; there’s no way that sh*t (literally) was mine.

I debated what to do. Do I call him and yell? Do I clean up the mess and let him maintain his dignity? Do I write an article about it on a national website and hope other people find it funny? Do I buy him baby wipes for the next major holiday? I just didn’t know. Yes, it was totally his fault, but how do you even go about accusing someone of leaving skid marks on your sheets?!

Thoroughly disgusted, I ended up calling him.

“Hey, baby,” he said as he picked up the phone.
“Did you poop before you came over last night?”
“Wha?”

I asked him again. He denied it and kept denying it until I told him what I had found…and inhaled. Finally, he fessed up, then quickly came over to wash my sheets. He probably thought that would get him out of the dog house (…or outhouse) but it was too late. The fights were one thing, but the runs were just inexcusable. After he folded my sheets I kicked him to the curb.

I always thought that with him being older, he had things he could teach me. Turns out, I was the one who could teach a few things. Mostly, how to wipe your own ass.

I had just gotten out of a long relationship and immediately hopped into the sack with a new guy (…what? I needed some emotional support!) when I decided to change my birth control prescription. I had never really been happy with the old one, but had put off changing because I didn’t want to deal with the whole spotting issue with my BF around. So now, I reasoned, since the new guy and I were taking things slower, it would be a good time to make the switch.

Well, of course, taking it slow only lasts until somebody gets horny (or drunk), so a few days after I made the pill switch I found myself rolling around naked with my new beau. Everything was going fine – great, in fact – when he whispers in my ear excitedly “wow, you’re really wet!”

For just a second I was proud of myself for my impressive lubricative prowess (yes, it takes very little to make me proud) when suddenly he just stopped. He looked up at me worriedly and asked if I was OK. Confused, I looked down to see what he meant and almost had a panic attack. The spotting I had been worried about had started… all over his groin.

If there was a way to curl myself into a progressively smaller ball until I finally just disappeared, I would have done it. But surely I would have left a trail of blood (and tears) behind. I apologized profusely while I cleaned up the mess (on me, and my sheets, and my blanket, ugh!) and to his credit, he didn’t run screaming from the room.

Nonetheless, we decided to keep it down to cuddling until I was finished with my little transition and I had to promise to tell him the next time I decided to switch medication.

I will admit it, I’m an awkward girl.  I’ll say goodbye to someone and then walk in the same direction as them with a stupid grin on my face.  I’ve messed up high fives more times than should be legally allowed.  I’ve called my roommates good friend (whom I’ve known for months) “Tyler,” when his name is “Lucas”…HOW DO YOU MESS THAT UP?  I’m able to take a perfectly normal moment and transform it into a typical scene in any Wes Anderson film (it’s a gift). The trouble is, I don’t realize how incredibly dorky I must look until looking back, and slapping my forehead accordingly.

So by the rules of physics (which I am unsurprisingly sucky at) it would only make sense that I would take this persona I’ve been cursed blessed with and apply to almost every sexual encounter I’ve experienced.  Well, of course, the beginnings are more of learning experiences rather than “fun timez.”   Now let’s time travel back 7 years when it all began…

Cue the hazy flashbacks and dream-like sound effects.

It’s 2002.  I am 12 years old and in 6th grade.  According to the more experienced middle-schoolers on the playground, I had a “boyfriend.”  This boy would talk to me on AOL (yeah…old skool), but we wouldn’t dare even look at each other during school.  I was so nervous to have a boy like me, I was completely unaware of how I should act around him.  Even at school basketball games together I was so scared just to sit by him because maybe he’d put his arm around me! (OMGG!!)  So one day I decided I needed to break out of my shell a bit.  My good friend lived by his friend, and on weekends I naturally spent most of the weekend there trying to make plans to have us all meet up and hang out.  For the 4 months we supposedly dated, this “weekend hang-out plan” worked literally 1 time.

That night my mom called me asking me our plans for the night, and I told her we were going to see a movie (lie). What I was really doing was sneaking out with my one friend to meet up with my “boyfriend” and his friend.  This rush I got from lying to my mom for the first time sent me on this adrenaline high of “I’M SO EFFIN’ COOL I CAN DO ANYTHING! I’M A REBEL!”  Later that night we eventually met up, and, as was naturally destined for me, it was awkward.  I’m pretty sure there was an unspoken agreement between the group that me and my “boyfriend” should seal the deal and KISS!

I can definitely say that feeling “nervous” was an understatement.  We stood there in the backyard in the dark for what seemed like hours in the middle of an mid-April night, as our friend sat on the curb of the street under the streetlight patiently waiting for the deed to be done.  It was chilly and I didn’t have a sweater, so I decided I was sick of being cold and waiting for my first kiss, so I leaned in so he’d get the idea.  He definitely got the idea, and as I was slowly ready for my first kiss to happen, even schizophrenically hearing the tune to “Dreams” by Cranberries in my head, that record scratch sound came into play at that very moment.

Instead of demonstrating a sweet (and normal) peck to be given, I felt something wet.  Huh? WTF David Blane?  He. Licked. My. Mouth.

He didn’t even start with a normal peck and move his tongue around, like an inexperienced 6th grader might.  He straight up licked my mouth like a melting ice cream cone in August.  Maybe he was expecting a sexified makeout session, or maybe he was expecting a normal kiss but started it off wrong?  Was it wrong that I was expecting just a peck?  So as a mature middle-schooler I was, I decided to stop… and start screaming.  I walked out of there wiping my mouth and ran to my friend so she’d get the idea that we had to leave NOW. 

I realize this story should be called “Seven Years After” instead of “The Morning After,” but I also know that first kisses tend to stick around in everyone’s memories. And this one just had to be shared. Anyone else have some first kiss horror stories?

The random hook-up at the bar turns into a passionate relationship — whether titled or untitled is irrelevant. It could have been a one night stand, but because of the chemistry between the two people, it wasn’t.

Think this never happens? Well, you’re wrong. Plenty of my friends’ relationships started in this exact fashion and a few of my own past relationships started in the same manner.

Of course the sparks aren’t always there on the morning after, but you know what, the sparks aren’t always there after long-anticipated sex, either.

Sometimes — and I hate to admit it — but sometimes when you wait to have sex, you are, in fact, making sex the focal point of the relationship. You’re doing the exact opposite of what you’ve intended to do without even realizing it. To some guys, waiting to have sex becomes much more like a game that a foundation for a relationship. You set aside an unobtainable thing for a man to desire and he will, a lot of the time, do and say whatever he can to get that thing…regardless of whether or not it’s what he means inside. Does this have any relevance at all to whether or not the two of you are good for each other? NOPE.

I choose to have sex sooner than later — and always safely. I’d rather give a man the opportunity off the bat to drop his in-the-pursuit-of-sex act and show me who he really is. Who wants to waste months getting to know a guy who is still just fronting because he secretly can’t stop wondering when he’s going to have sex with you? I sure don’t.

But for those of you out there who think a man either A) loses respect for girls who have sex sooner than later or B) gains respect for girls who wait to have sex…I simply disagree. Most of my friends are guys and they have backed me up on this: respecting a woman has to do with WHO SHE IS, not long she makes you wait to f*ck her.

Anyone else agree?

[photo from: redbookmag.com]