The Morning After: Bucket O Wings

My sophomore year I lived with my best friend in an all-girls’ dorm. Needless to say, squeezing 500+ girls into one building was begging for trouble. Constantly surrounded by tampon wrappers, curling irons and vaginas (I mean, really) took its toll on my tiny, horny roomie. She met a guy in her Creative Writing class who she believed to be “the One,”even though he was an obvious tool (bleach blonde, tan, AND president of a frat). But she was starved for some lovin’, and started to see (read: have sex with) him on a regular basis.

One night in the fall, she dragged a couple of us out to one of his events, a chicken-wing eating contest at a famously tasty local bar. We went, hoping for some free grub. Unfortunately, the only one of us who got to taste anything at the contest was my roomie, who was proudly sucking face with the frat president, who, I swear, had little flecks of BBQ sauce crusting in the corners of his mouth.

So, to ease my own guilt about being single and hungry, I started to order some shots at the bar. Eventually, I was plastered, happily snapping drunk kissy-face pics with two of my other girl friends. The roomie (and toolbag) were nowhere to be found.

After searching for roomie in all the obvious places (the bathroom stall with her head glued to the toilet bowl, the men’s restroom, the alley out back), my friends and I decided we had no choice but to search for her at the frat boy’s house. We stumbled through the streets of our college town, trying to recall which frat it was that our tiny friend’s lover boy belonged to. We knocked on several doors and were greeted by many (angry, drunk, sleeping) frat boys before we found the right house. But, to our drunken dismay, the front door was LOCKED. So, we did what any drunk college girls would do and found an open window at the back of the house.

Once we were all inside the living room, we started looking for our roomie. I recalled a conversation I had with her about how awkward it was that Mr. President lived on the first floor alone (and right next to the communal TV room), so we started knocking on the door next to the TV room. And when we didn’t hear so much as a hushed “OMG, someone’s knocking!” we started POUNDING. And screaming the roomie’s name at the top of our lungs. And kicking the door with our stilettos. It wasn’t that we wanted to ruin her fun; it was that in our drunken haze we didn’t want to leave her all by herself with some random guy. We were looking out for our friend!

After several failed attempts, we figured the two were in the middle of a magical, frat-boy- love-making sesh, so we decided to make ourselves comfortable until they were finished. Then we could all walk home together and make sure she made it home safely.

We made our way to the kitchen and started raiding the fridge. (What? We were hungry!) And that is when we found ourselves in drunk girl heaven. There, staring right back at us, was a HUGE GALLON BUCKET OF LEFT-OVER CHICKEN WINGS just chillin’ in the fridge.

We lunged at the bucket, plopped on the couch and started to nom, throwing chicken bones at the TV, sticking them between couch cushions, and wiping our sticky, BBQ-covered digits on the couch cover. It was pure bliss.

Eventually, our sticky knuckles were grazing the bottom of the bucket. The wings were gone.  Feeling somewhat guilty (and totally bloated), we decided it was time to leave. Roomie could figure out her own way home.

However, when I got back to my dorm, I found roomie and frat boy snuggled up in her twin size bed. She had been there the entire time. I quickly jumped in the shower and brushed my teeth to wipe away any evidence of my late night snack, then hopped into bed.

The next day, roomie and the boy attended class together. She came home from class a little disheveled and sad-looking. When I asked her what was wrong, she said: “[Frat boy] was pretty pissed off today. I guess one of the guys ate all the left-over chicken wings and made a huge mess and no one will fess up. He even had to cancel our plans tonight for a mandatory house meeting. Like, seriously, who does that?”


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