One evening I find myself in the library being an A+ scholar…sort of. Picture the scene: I’ve got a textbook open, my Starbucks in front of me, and I’m just jamming out to my iTunes when The Most Beautiful Guy in The World stands up and leans over the little desk divider. In an exact quote, he says, “I love that song.”
My friend's parents were out of town a few weeks ago and, naturally, she threw a party. Between beer bongs on the deck, I started talking with one of the other party-goers. She told me about a great guy she knew that she thought would be perfect for me. "I'm going to have him Facebook you. You have to go out." Being the perpetual single girl, I was excited at the prospect. Especially when she told me he was tall, cute and funny.
Lesson learned: No good ever comes of hooking up close friends. Especially when you're right in the middle of their bromance sandwich.
Hickeys. WTF good does a hickey ever do? WTF bad does a hickey ever do? Now that's a question I can answer. Unfortunately my answer involves parents, family friends and some big league embarrassment.
It was one of those nights where you just have a feeling, before even mixing that first pre-drink, that it's really gonna suck. But I decided to accompany one of my roommates to our local bar anyway, just to get out of the room. When we finally arrived, my suspicions were confirmed: the crowd was the same and everything blew.
It was time for my sorority's annual "Crush Party," where each sister invites as many guys as she wants and we all take a bus trip to a banquet hall. It's also known as pretty much the biggest drinking event of the semester. Needless to say, my memory became hazy about halfway through the night.
Before heading out on Friday night, I got everything ready and set out for another typical bar night. It went like any other - lots of cocktails, lots of dancing, lots of bathroom trips - and ended with some “wannaa meet pu??” texts. My then “fling,” we’ll call David, and I decided to have a little sleepover.
It started off like any other football Saturday: beer pong and well-done burgers on my friend's roof at 8am. Except unlike most Saturdays, I was dominating the beer pong table. By the time we had to leave for the game, I had 5 games, 7 beers and a hamburger bun under my belt. And I was drunk.
So St. Paddy's Day 2010 has come and gone and if the giant foam hat I discovered in my bed this morning (that I don't even remember wearing...) is any indication, the day was a huge success. Not a success: my brand new pillow cases that are now permanently printed with glittery green shamrocks that were once adorning my cheeks.
Since my first sexual experiences in high school, I’ve always had the problem of well…over sharing a tad. I guess I just chalked it up to girl talk -- don’t best friends always swap stories of their sexual escapades? After all, it’s kinda nice to show off! What’s the fun if it has to be a secret? But I realized pretty quickly that some people just don’t want to know. And that’s okay.
My night began like most others: taking shots to the beat of some Lady Gaga song (gimme a break - it was last fall), followed by endless rounds of pong (and probably some trash talking about how I once made a behind-the-back shot). To say the least, my texting abilities slowly declined with each game, and soon my night went from “hey what’s good?” to “meet pu laterrrrrrr???”
Everyone in college can recall their "worst night" (the night they end up passed out in a pile of woodchips, or walking home at 8AM with a banana costume on), but unfortunately for us, all four of my roommates had ours on the same night.
It all started on an innocent Sunday night in my routine of “Get up, survive, go back to bed.” I had a math test to cram into my brain for Monday afternoon, so I was in the dorm room jamming away on my calculator and re-learning weeks of notes when I heard the door open. My roommate sauntered into the room with a friend. A man-friend.
I had been seeing a boy in the Air Force. We'd hang out and make wonderful memories when he was on leave and visiting home, and then I'd be free as a bird when he had to go back. It was fun while he was here, and it was fun when he was gone.
I had known Jon (name has been changed since I know homeboy reads this site) for a little over a year. Our entire relationship was based on drinking together; we met through a friend at a bar, exchanged numbers and quickly became one another's drinking friends. You know, the one you call when you're drunk at 10:30 on a Friday and looking for fun people to meet up with.