Edge Of Twenty

My recent lack of posts stems from the fact that I'm currently going through a vapid yet disruptive existential crisis. Less than a month shy of turning 20, I've found myself questioning my current lifestyle habits and wondering what effect my present behavior will have on my more-and-more-rapidly-encroaching post graduate life. I'll be the first to admit it: I go out too often and while I'm out I go too extreme. There's no denying it, and while my GPA is good, there's also no denying that it would be better if I acted more responsibly. At my large university, I've been able to make it feel much smaller by knowing a vast majority of the non-asian male population, due to them either being next on my Hit List or already on my I've-Hit-It List. I only go to the gym on days when I'm not hungover, which is approximately twice a week,  and my diet consists of coffee with nonfat milk until 3 pm, and roughly one thousand calories worth of pizza after 3 am. While it looks like I've hired Lindsay Lohan's old life coach, the truth is I'm the happiest now that I've ever been in my entire life. The only thought causing me stress is that maybe it's time I should start thinking responsibly.
Every morning, I sit with my coffee and have a hungover meditation. I know I could fix all of these seemingly wrong things about my life easily, and I know exactly how I'd do it. Instead of starving myself all day so that I can fit into whichever piece of spandex nightwear I'm planning on wearing and then drunk munching on pizza before falling asleep with my shoes still on, I could eat dinner at a reasonable hour then retire to my room to stay on top of my homework before the weekend comes. Then, if I limited myself to only going out on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and also enforced a rule where I went to the gym either the day I went out in order to tighten up for my going out-fit, and also on days after I've gone out in order to sweat out my hangover, I'd end up working out four days a week. Finally, instead of only answering texts from boys who only talk to me after 11 pm, I could take one of the nice boys I know up on their offer to hang out soberly. From there, we could enter a bond beyond the party scene, and both of us could just cut the whole hard-to-get bullshit and have a functional relationship that doesn't
involve playing mind games.
But if this is the kind of life that I'll be forced to live once I graduate, what's the sense in living it now? Missing class because of a hangover is more forgivable than missing work because of one. And getting your favorite pair of Hanky Panky's back from the frat boy who's best friend dates your Big is way easier than getting them back from some guy you met at a bar downtown. It's healthy for me to get these unhealthy habits out of my system now while they're still forgivable. My existential crisis of exiting my teenage years started with the realization that I should grow more responsible to secure my future, but that led me to the opposite realization that the responsible thing to do now is act irresponsibly before a multitude of adult responsibilities are thrust upon me. On the edge of twenty, I realized that I might just be at an age where I need to do things that are bad for me. I need to stay out past 3 am the night before I have a midterm. I need to enjoy what is rapidly becoming the not-so-occasional cigarette while I'm drunk. I need to fall asleep in my makeup and contacts because I've fallen asleep in a bed other than my own. And I need to fuel myself with coffee and diet coke in order to rapidly get homework done so that I still have time in the day to tan without sunscreen. At this point in my life, it seems that the most unhealthy lifestyle I could lead would be one full of organic foods, sleeping, and furthermore sleeping next to someone with whom I have a functional relationship.


Wax On, Wax Off

There comes a time in every young woman’s life when she needs to find the courage within herself to rip off the bandaid. And by bandaid, I mean wax strip. Like a below-the-belt Bat Mitzvah, your first bikini wax signifies the transition from girl to woman. And I figured what better time to take the plunge than before my college spring break trip. If my body could endure a 72 hour binge drinking bender in the beating sun, then it could also endure a little wax and a lot of body hair. So I booked the appointment for a wax at my local salon to make a quick pit stop to Brazil before my trip to Havasu.
The bravery coursed through my veins after I hung up with the receptionist, and I began associating my bikini wax with all the crazy times I was going to have on my trip. But my bravery fleeted me only hours later as I walked on wobbly legs to my car; it was the same nervous feeling I’d had before I got my belly button pieced, only this time the piercing pain would be between my thighs. I realized not only would this potentially be the most painful experience of my 19 years of living, but also the first time I’d be exposing my vataylor to a woman who had gone to beauty school instead of medical school. But this was something I had to do; razor burn and stubble were two things I would not be packing for my spring break trip.
I wobbled into the salon with wide eyes and a gaunt expression. The receptionist at the main desk directed me downstairs to the spa level where I sat my shaky nerves on a luxurious couch. Moments later, my waxer came out to greet me, then led me into a private room for me to take my pants off in. Perhaps I would have felt more at home if the waxing tables had been lofted like frat house bunk beds.
“I’m a little nervous,” I underexaggerated, “this is my first bikini wax.”
“Don’t be nervous! It’s a little painful, but when it’s done you’re gonna be like ‘why haven’t I been getting these all along?’” She was nice, I knew my chaste hair follicles were in good hands. “With a Brazilian wax, it’s normally best to take off everything.”
So with a deep breath, I unbuttoned my pants and pulled off both shorts and boyshorts. I felt like I was losing my virginity. I laid down on the table as the waxer snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then prepped her stick with wax. She spread the wax onto my skin and placed on the first strip. Paralyzed with fear, I laid there on the bed completely stiff.
“Take a deep breath,” she instructed.
I took as deep of a breath as my mildly abused lungs could hold, and on my exhale I felt the first rip. The pain was sharp but brief. In a bizarre way, it felt good. I could feel my bikini line being cleansed, and that was a cause worth suffering for. She pulled off strip after strip until I eventually became numb to the pain. My body was in a deep state of meditation as I felt my hair follicles being detoxed.
“Alright, all done.”
Resuscitated from my relaxation, I sprung up from the table and redressed.
“Thank you so much!” I told her as a strange adrenaline pumped through my veins.
I paid then walked to my car with a brand new pep in my step. I felt reborn, and was officially a waxing convert. And most of all, I was ready to go on spring break as a new woman.


A Walk To Forget

Having a high tolerance for humiliation, I am generally unfazed by feelings of embarrassment during walks of shame. Some walkers prefer to take extreme backroads or even sprint their way home in fear of ridicule and judgement, but not me. Regardless of how scanty my dress may be, I take my sweet time slowly strolling up even the busiest of streets; frat row is essentially my runway.
But the other morning halfway through a walk back from my favorite fraternity, I had a weird encounter that was more bizarre than the drunken night before had been. I'd been set up for a date party at a frat where I was surprised I'd never met my date since, to put it lightly, I'd already "met" a lot of guys in that house. Since I didn't know my date prior, but I knew a lot of other girls' dates, I pulled out all the stops by wearing a dress that left very little to the imagination, and heels so chunky that I'd used them in lieu of a hammer to push thumbtacks into my wall on move-in day. My outfit worked like a charm, and my date and I really hit it off. In fact, the dress worked so well that I found myself walking home in it a mere 10 hours later, only this time the outfit wasn't exactly what I would've chosen for a "morning" look. But still, I walked proudly with my heels in hand during the arduous trek up fraternity row, past people I didn't know and people I did know but didn't care enough to stop and explain my indecency to. I was only a block away from my place when all of the sudden my concentrated strut was broken by someone calling to me.
"Hey, excuse me!" I looked up to see a young guy pulled into a driveway in front of me with his car window rolled down.
Ugh, great, I thought to myself, just what I need right now, someone heckling me.
But once he saw that he'd gotten my attention he continued, "Can you tell me where the music building is?" His heavily accented voice sounded panicked and desperate, so I shrugged my scantily clad shoulders and replied sure. I took a couple of barefoot steps over towards his car and began my explanation.
"The music building is right past the humanities quad, kind of near the astronomy building. Do you know where I'm talking about?"
He looked at me with wide, terrified eyes, "No, no, I do not know where that is, I am not from here," his accent sounded european, and though it didn't make him attractive he didn't look like he could've been more than two or three years older than me. "You see, I have to be at the music hall before 10 for a rehearsal. The concert is my own so it is very important that I be there on time!"
I looked at me phone, it was 9:50. This kid was fucked, and not in the good way.
"Okay, okay," now we were in a time crunch, and for some reason (perhaps the fact that I was still considerably drunk from the night before) I had adopted this foreigner's problem as my own. "So you're going to continue straight down this street and make a left at the next right. Then, you're going to go straight through the light after that, then turn left again at the next light into a roundabout. There, you'll see a bunch of buses and cars and whatnot, drive past those and go into the parking structure. Then once you get out of your car, you're going to walk up a hill past the student store straight up to the music hall. But be careful not to walk in the other direction out of the parking structure or else you'll end up in the dorms!"
"Oh, thank you, thank you!"I felt rewarded, like I'd just done a good deed to rid me of my morning shame. He instantly appeared more relieved, which became evident in his next statement. "So...." he continued much more calmly, "I am here for a couple of days, are there fun places to go at night?"
Still in tour-guide mode, I replied enthusiastically "Sure! There's a bar down this street we're on now that's a huge night spot for students. Especially on Wednesday, that's Pint Night!"
"Do you ever go there?" He asked.
"No, I'm not 21." Why was I still talking to this guy?
"Where do you go out to?" He inquired further.
I couldn't help but laugh and look down at my dress, "I normally just go to the frats."
"Oh, okay. Do you think I could have your phone number for during my stay here? Maybe you could escort me out some night?"
Just as I was drunkenly about to start rattling off my phone number, it struck me: Oh, my god, this guy thinks I'm a prostitute!
"Oh, I'm sorry,"I was jolted back to sobriety, "my phone is broken, bye!" I hurried away from his car before he'd have the chance to notice that my phone had been in my hand during our entire conversation.
I'd always thought of walks of shame as embarrassing only because your fellow students could see your obvious scarlet letter of sleeping in someone else's bed. But it never occurred to me until that eye opening morning that what college students know to be sleeping out, people outside of the Greek System perceive to be prostitution.


I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman

When I was a kid, I always had a looming suspicion that I was older than my birth certificate said. I was the same height and reading level as my older sister, which logically meant that I must be the same age as well. The following years held my hitting puberty before all of my classmates, buying my first bra before all of my friends, and thanks in part to my italian heritage, once again being the first to wax my eyebrows and co. From the very beginning I've always felt that my physical age was a year or two behind my internal age.
To this day, as a nineteen year old who, depending on the outfit, could pass for 25, my physical self often gets in the way of doing what my internal self loves most: drinking. My ID deficit never affects me when I go out to the fraternities or apartments, but whenever I want to flock to the bars with the mature crowd my physical self prevents that from happening. Thankfully, a bar on campus recently opened that's 18+ to enter and 21+ to drink. So this past week, my girlfriends and I decided that there was no better way to celebrate the last night of Mardi Gras than to hit up the bar in our festive attire of beads and beer goggles.
After a significant amount of pregaming, we stumbled our struts over to the 18+ bar. The atmosphere was vibing, the place was full of our peers and everyone was dripping in both beads and booze. My friends and I walked in, made our rounds, and after a brief lap around the place I arrived at the drunkenly determined decision that I was going to get a drink by whatever means necessary. I walked up to the bar bearing no ID and no money, only my most seductive eye contact. I set my gaze upon the bartender and unleashed a look that could have constituted sexual harassment. But by some metaphysical triumph, the bartender obediently gravitated over to me.
"What're you drinking?" He asked with a smile.
"Vodka tonic," I replied, still raping his soul with my eyes.
I watched as he made my drink, but before I could even slur out an excuse to free me from paying for it he just placed it on the bar and walked away. Stunned, I picked up the drink and turned to my friends. I couldn't believe my womanly powers were capable of waiving both currency and photo ID! My breasts are much more powerful than I thought, I internalized.
"What! How did you get that?!" My friends were jealous, which only made my success taste sweeter.
"The bartender just gave it to me!" Even saying it out loud I couldn't fully believe it.
"You're so lucky!"
"I know!!!" I felt on top of the world; I couldn't believe what I'd achieved with just a single look. I love being a woman.
I had a winner's thirst, so I took a sip of my vodka tonic to quench it. The taste of my drink was just as delicious as my victory. I swallowed my sip, and a second man immediately gravitated over to me, only this time it was a bouncer.
Shit! My heart dropped. No longer was I feeling sexy and confident.
"Do you have a wristband?" The bouncer didn't address me with the same grin the bartender had.
"I'm just holding it for a friend!" I tried to rape his soul but his eyes were deadened and mechanical.
"Let me see your ID." In lieu of a fake ID, I handed over my genuine 1992 license with the hope that he would be too distracted by my picture to look at my D.O.B.
He squinted his robotic eyes and shook his head. "Come with me," and with that he escorted me outside. "Don't let her back in," he said to the bouncer at the entrance, then went inside.
Within one minute I'd gone from feeling like the sexiest girl in the bar, to feeling like the biggest loser standing outside of the bar alone with the exception of a bouncer who wouldn't make nice despite my best efforts, all the while pathetically covered in sequins and beads.
"Pleeease let me back in, all of my friends are inside!" I didn't know whether he'd be more susceptible to crying or flirting.
"Can't do that," he said without even looking at me.
"Babyyy, pleaseee!" I guess I was taking the flirting route.
"Nope," he remained stone cold.
"Puh-leaseee, I promise I won't drink! Just let me back in, baby!"
He'd stopped answering me.
Now he was just ignoring me.
"Fine! I'm gonna get raped walking home all alone and it'll be your fault!" Now I was angry, no one puts  this baby in a corner.
He just shook his head, still unswayed by my new angry approach. However, I wasn't done ranting.
"You don't even understand how stupid this is for your business! Do you even know how many drinks I would've gotten bought for me tonight?!" I was trying to put on the air that I was "the shit," but in actuality standing outside alone foolishly in my costume at the absolute mercy of this fat, aged bouncer, I had never been less of "the shit" in my entire life. My womanly powers had fleeted me, and I was left outside in shame, standing there like a little girl who'd been put in the time-out corner.
Absolutely defeated, I realized that this was a battle I wasn't going to win regardless of how seductive or angry I got. I turned away and walked myself home, stuck in the awkward limbo between ages 18 and 21.


You Snooze, They Lose

Being perpetually single, it only make sense that I celebrate my Valentines Day by doing something quintessential of my love life: having a random hook-up. I went to a pseudo-classy party at one of my favorite frats, where the boys were wearing shirts with buttons and collars, there was no dubstep playing, and everyone in attendance was guzzling as much $5 wine as their plastic cups could hold. Because I wasn’t doing my normal routine of throwing back shots, I unknowingly drank myself into a wine-drunk. My body was buzzing, my cheeks were radiating more than my uncontrollable smile was, and my brain was scanning the room for the nearest face to make out with. That’s when I found the easiest and most accessible solution: the guy in that frat who tried to get me to give him a handjob during a busride to a football game this past fall. He was cute, but in the past I hadn’t been into him because of how available he’d made himself, which in that moment made him the ideal candidate.
I slurred out a little flirting, and after about a minute flat I had successfully scored myself a valentine. In the holiday spirit, we started celebrating our genuine love and adoration for one another by making out in a most reprehensible manner. In about another minute flat, we retreated to the “privacy” of the curtain enclosing the bottom bunk of his shared bedroom. Unable to withstand the raging emotions of our feelings for one another, and equally unable to cope with the hormones brought on from our binge drinking, he took off his button down and slacks, as well as my festive pink dress.
Even though I was in this boy’s bedroom, my true valentine that night was definitely wine. I was in love with the wine, and the sleepy adoration it had me feeling. I wasn’t energetic and ready to rage the way I was normally rendered from drinking hard alcohol, but instead I was very giggly and extremely tranquil. I was evidently feeling love drunk off the wine, or else I wouldn’t have ended up in this particular valentine’s bed when I had a midterm the next morning. But there was something about the magic of the wine that had me magnetically drawn to his bed.
Equally love drunk, my valentine was a more frisky type of playful. “Babe,” he said whilst kissing my neck, “I would love it if you’d go down on me.”
I playfully repeated what he said, like some kind of drunken parrot, “I’d love it if you went down on me!” I grinned a huge smile that was framed by my cabernet-stained lips.
He returned the playful banter, “I’ll go down on you if you go down on me?”
“Okay! You first!” I flipped over onto my back and let my valentine be magnetized downward the same way I’d been magnetically drawn into his bed. I didn’t care that I was single on this holiday; it was the happiest Valentine’s Day I could’ve wished for. The combination of what literally was going down mixed with the tranquility I’d achieved off several glasses of vino had landed me in hook-up heaven.
A little while later, my valentine came back up to my hemisphere of the bed, but I remained still in my state of bliss. Eager to get his half of the favor, he moved his body to the upmost part of his bed so that I could stay on my back while still holding up my end of the bargain.
I wasn’t trying to avoid my promise, I was just fighting a losing battle against the sleepy euphoria that was washing over me so heavily I was in danger of drowning. But as I began giving him his valentines gift, I continued sinking deeper and deeper into my slumberous abyss, until the next thing I knew my alarm was sounding for my morning midterm!
“Oh, shit!” I woke up in an adrenaline rush, desperate to make it back to my room despite my time crunch so that I wouldn’t have to take my midterm in my flagrant Valentines Day outfit.
“Huh? What’s the matter?” he groggily mumbled, being roused from his sleep.
“I have to go take a midterm!” I said as I pulled my clothes on, “Later!” I flashed him a smile and ran out of his room.
In contrast with all the good students strolling past me on their way to class, I sprinted to my room to change into a decent outfit, then made my way to class. As I hurried to class, I ran over the previous nights events in my head. It wasn’t a blackout, but it was certainly blurry. My mind was racing as fast as my body was; the closer I got to my lecture hall, the more of the night I remembered. I remember making out in the main room, then we went back to his room obviously, seeing as that’s where I woke up… Then as I arrived at the classroom door, it hit me. Oh my God! I fell asleep while I was giving him head!  In total shock as well as astonishment, I opened the door just before my professor began handing out the exam. Well, I contemplated, at least I slept through giving him head, and not my morning midterm.


What's My Age Again?

As a little girl, my pimp of a mother would arrange bath time playdates between me and almost every little boy on my block. Time that wasn't spent in the tub was still spent nakedly playing "doctor." In short, my naked history with boys goes far back. But some time between kindergarten and first grade, I ditched my pre-med life and stopped playing naked doctor with boys in exchange for injecting cootie-shots with my girl friends. It wasn't until years later upon reaching sexual maturity that my interest in the male anatomy resurfaced, and so the naked playdates recommenced.
Playtime in college is vastly more enjoyable than the playdates of our youth. We're mature young adults now, meaning we're of a, legal or not, drinking age, and the permissible age to sign an apartment lease independent from parental authority. Week in and week out, I find myself playing doctor with young men regardless of if they're on the road to medical school or not. These boys don't need to call their moms for permission to sleep over, and don't refer to their junk as "private parts" or "pee pees." In contrary, private parts have become exceedingly public. However, I should have expected that when things seem too good to be true, they probably are. This past Saturday night, or more accurately Sunday morning, served as a wake up call that I've been taking sexual maturity for granted. I now find myself wondering if we all innately reach sexual maturity through human biology, or if some of us forever remain kids at heart.
The night started out no different from the standard mature young adult night. My friends and I took advantage of the free-for-all-who-have-a-vagina alcohol at our favorite fraternity and danced the fine line between incoherent and fun. Somewhere amidst the dancing on couches and shotgun competitions, I ran into one of my casual guy friends. Let it be said that, in college, when I say "guy friend" I mean an attractive acquaintance with whom I maintain a friendly relationship for the provisional goal of eventually hooking up with them. This guy friend was no exception, so I was down to fool around.
Less than an hour later and without the permission of our parents, my guy friend and I decided to have a sleepover at his apartment which is exactly how I woke up that Sunday morning to his manly arms cuddling me. Sexual maturity rocks.
"Hey," he said in a sleepy voice, then laid an equally sleepy kiss on my lips.
"Mhmm, good morning," the fact that I didn't wake up spewing out a slur of groggy obscenities the way I typically do when being roused from my sleep is a miracle in itself.
"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you last night," he smiled with his cute smile.
"Yeah, I really did too," I couldn't help but smile back. But after a few seconds of us drowsily smiling at each other, I jolted into panic when I realized that my study group of nerds had inconsiderately decided that we meet on a Sunday morning. "Oh shit, what time is it? I have a study group at 9 and need to shower before."
He reached his sculpted, fratty bicep over and checked his phone.
"It's 8," he gave me yet another smile and pulled me on top of him, "still a little time to fool around."
Though I am absolutely not a morning person, and I had a truly exceptional hangover, I was totally into this. So despite my pounding head, I indulged in the sleepy bliss of kissing in the morning. But my bliss was short lived; after a couple of minutes, my guy friend was trying to push my pounding head down to give him head. He wanted to play doctor by giving me an injection in the mouth, and my hangover and I were not down to go down. I resisted his push, but then he started begging.
"Aww, please baby, please! Just go down!" His smile was cute, but not that cute.
"No, I don't want to right now," it was way too early for this shit.
"Please, Taylor!" His incessant begging was quickly getting on my nerves.
"No, stop it," how could I tell him that the only thing I wanted in my mouth was a hot cup of coffee?
"Ughhhh, come on Tay!" he pleaded as he kept pushing me downward. I'd reached my limit.
"Seriously, stop! You're really annoying me!" I felt silly scolding him, but it was necessary.
Just when I thought I'd put up with his worst, he rolled away from me onto his side of the bed and whined under his breath "Well, you're annoying me..."
My jaw dropped; If I hadn't been rendered speechless, I wouldn't have known whether to laugh or get angry at his childish display. One thing was certain, I'd been snapped out of our playtime. I realized I wasn't lying next to a sexy and mature young man, I was lying next to a big baby with a big dick.
I didn't have time to babysit, so I got out of bed and gathered my stuff, "Okay, see you later."
"Wait, stop,"he said as I moved towards the door, "at least let me walk you downstairs."
I wanted to make a snide remark about how his mother had taught him such good manners, but I didn't want to piss him off since I needed him to walk me downstairs and I also needed to borrow his shirt so I wouldn't have to commit the disgraceful crime of wearing sequins in the morning.
Once I was freed from his apartment, I spent my walk home not sprinting in shame, but instead comprehending what had just gone down in result of not going down. I started to think that sexual maturity isn't something everyone arrives at after puberty, but rather something that a small minority arrives at from proper emotional development. Just because someone can get a boner, it doesn't necessarily mean they're qualified to use it. In the short walk from his apartment to my dorm room I'd once again lost all hope in men. I realized that the little boys I used to have bathtimes with had better manners than the college boy whose apartment I'd just slept over at.


Dude, Where's My Dignity?

As is evident in every Nancy Drew book or thriller-genre movie ever made, mysterious things happen at night. Every weird plot twist is always committed under the dark veil of night, then discovered in the daylight. It often feels like I'm an aspiring detective majoring in forensics with how frequently my college career requires me to solve my own mysteries. More often than I'd like to give a self-abasing number to, I find myself waking up in a mysterious location with enigmatic clues as to what happened the night before in my purse. The detective within me investigates further by finding texts from unknown numbers, and deciphering cryptic texts from my own outbox. Normally I'm able to crack the case by midafternoon, but this past weekend I was met with the most difficult case of my forensic career.
I woke up feeling like I'd been through a war against myself. Head pounding, body aching, tally marks all over my arms, and bruises all over my legs. I knew where I'd started my night, and I could safely theorize that I ended my night in my room since that's where I woke up, but everything in between desperately needed solving. The sheer pain of my hangover lead me to believe that last night had not been a standard beer and vodka night. I looked at the tallies on my arm to see how much I'd drank, but my tallies stopped after the first few drinks then turned into roman numerals and dirty drawings extending up my forearm. But as I tried to make sense of the cryptic scribbles on my arm, I found my first clue. The area of my hand between my thumb and pointer finger was red and chafed.
"Tequila shots!" I gasped. That was why my night was a perplexing blur. But knowing that I'd done tequila shots gave me a vague recollection of the pregame. I remembered going salt, shot, lime with a sexy stranger that I'd seen around campus but hadn't seen at any parties until last night. This clue gave me a sneaking suspicion that I'd done something stupid. My salted hand reached onto the floor for my purse and I checked to see if anything was missing; I had my phone and room key, but my dignity was missing! My phone was out of battery, so I plugged it in to see if I'd taken any pictures or sent any texts that would help me crack this case. My phone revived itself, but there was no evidence which led me to believe that it had died before I could send any drunk texts. While it was dead I'd missed texts from my friend who I'd gone out with.
The first one read"Where are you?" Then five minutes later "I lost you again, where'd you go?", then "?", and finally "Taylor!! Are you dead?!" This was not going to be good. I needed to call her.
"Hmphgn... hello?" I'd woken her up.
"What happened last night?" The first rule of being a good detective is always ask questions.
"Haha I have no idea. I hardly even saw you at the party, you totally disappeared! When I finally found you, you were crying and kept on saying 'I got kicked out, I got kicked out' which clearly wasn't true because you were still at the party. Then you started asking me to draw on you."
"I'm never drinking tequila again," I lied to myself.
"You don't remember?"
"Not a thing!"
"I wish I could tell you more. Ugh, I should start getting ready for class."
"Yeah, same."
"Rough, good luck remembering your night."
I made the arduous trek from my bed to my bathroom sink and started getting ready for class. But once I put in my contacts, I looked in the mirror and found another clue all over my neck. Either I'd been violently strangled or someone had given me hickies. I ruled out the first possibility and came to the conclusion that I'd kissed someone or something the night before. But I didn't have the gift of time to test a DNA sample from my neck and match it to the perpetrator, so I rubbed some concealer on my neck and ran off to class.
The walk across campus was ridden with the anxiety that any passerby could potentially be the perpetrator. It was the most frustrated I'd ever been; it was already midafternoon and I still had no theory as to my dignity's whereabouts! I'd reached a serious block in my case and was starting to think that I'd never break through it. It was then at my lowest that I ran into my friend from freshman year.
"Hey girl, how are you feeling?" She asked me with sympathetic eyes.
"What do you mean?" Was my despair that obvious?
"Do you remember seeing me last night?"
"No!" I exclaimed happily, "you saw me last night??"
"Yeah, you were crying to me," she was clearly confused by my reaction, "are you okay now?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, what was I saying to you?"
"Uhh, well, you told me you had been making out with some guy in the bathroom of the bar, but then the security guard told you guys to get out of the bathroom, then you were just crying and saying 'I got kicked out' over and over."
I finally knew where my lost dignity was. But there was still one critical part of the mystery that needed unraveling. I grabbed my friend by the shoulders, seeking the final piece of information.
"I need you to tell me who the boy from the bathroom was," I had a crazy look in my eyes. My dignity was definitely a thing of the past.
"I don't know his name, but earlier that night before you were crying I'd seen you making out with some tall guy with kind of longish brown hair."
The sexy stranger from the pregame! I sputtered out a "thanks" to my friend and ran off. I had a bizarre peace of mind knowing that the sexy stranger had been the perpetrator of my hickey. On the one hand, I could rest assured that my hickey was not from someone hideously disfigured, but someone I'd wanted to hook up with since the first time I stalker-esquely saw them from afar. On the other hand, I'd inevitably made a Lindsay Lohan out of myself in front of one of the most attractive people I've ever seen in person. Regardless, I finally knew where my dignity had gone, though in no way did I have my dignity back.


The Wrestler

Hooking up is kind of like graphing logs. You plot the points of your intersecting bodily movements where the slope depends on how quickly things are escalating and the limit depends on what the mutual expectation for the night is. If you're both DTF, the limit does not exist. But, if you're intending to put a limit on what's going down (or should I say who's going down), then the math becomes tricky. Unlike mathematical equations, the two lines of this function to not always agree on the limit they're going to encroach. One member of the hook up almost always wants the other member's legs to split across the positive and negative side of the X-axis, and if that doesn't happen, they will at the very least want the other member to drop below their X-axis. This is often met by some hesitation from the other member of the hook up. This moment marks the most important point plotted on their sexual function; it's the moment when the hook up stops being mathematical and starts being physical. The numbers and logic disappear as the bed/couch/backseat turns into a wrestling ring. There is no more mathematics, no more words even, just a silent battle of strength and stubbornness. Just like in a wrestling match, everyone is wondering "who will go down first?"
The night starts out with the given exponents: girl, boy, alcohol, and apartment. Imagine you've been at a party when you start talking to an attractive guy. He's charming and funny to begin with, and the more you two drink, the more his attractive qualities exponentialize. You two are totally connecting, so as the party dies down you accept his offer to go back to his place and "hang out." And no, this isn't community college pre-algebra; you're not a fucking idiot so you know that by "hang out" he means "hook up." The next thing you know, you're back at his room on his top bunk and the majority of your clothing has been subtracted from the equation. The slope of your drunken function has been increasing rapidly, but you've mentally solved the equation by deciding that you're not down to fuck, but rather down to foreplay.
"Hold on, let me get a condom," it seems that he got a different answer.
"No, no, not tonight," you say. He's disappointed but accepts your answer, and so you two carry on the nakey-making-out.
You're drawing nearer and nearer to your limit, and are looking forward to the point at which you can blissfully pass the fuck out. He then makes the move from being on top to pulling you on top of him. Now that you're on top of him, he first puts his hands in your hair (aw) then moves his hands onto your shoulders, also known as his key leverage point (ugh). Now you're under pressure as he gently yet firmly pushes down on your shoulders. You've arrived at "The Limit." Numbers and slopes don't matter anymore, you're engaged purely in a test of physical strength and stamina as you resist the downward push from a pair of hands that you met all of three hours ago. Like any good athlete, motivational phrases run through your head to help you find the strength within to keep fighting. Does he even remember my name? Do I even remember his? Will he return the favor after, or just roll over and pass out? This room looks familiar- have I been in this same situation, only on his roommate's bottom bunk? Somehow, your thirty-minutes-on-the-elliptical-only-on-days-you're-hungover conditioned body is withstanding his fratty, swollen biceps. Neither of you have budged and both of your muscles are beginning to twitch. It's pretty awkward now.
Depending on how big of an asshole your opponent is, once he realizes he's not getting head he might pull a line like "Hey, listen, I gotta wake up really early to start tailgating tomorrow, so I'll see you later," or he might roll over without saying a word and pass out with you just lying there. Chances are he won't be happy that you won the wrestling match, which is why it's always best to leave and not sleep over if he doesn't kick you out anyway. Celebrate your victory on the shameful 4 am walk back to your room. The important thing is to not fall asleep at your opponent's place after winning the wrestling match. No one likes a sore loser, especially when they're cranky in the morning and don't even remember your name.


The Not So Red Scare

It all started with excruciating stomach pains this past monday in the middle of the night. In too much discomfort to sleep, and my mind now racing wishing I could call downstairs to my mom to get me ginger ale and saltines, I went online to schedule the earliest appointment available for the next morning at the school doctor. Seven hours of the worst, most fragmented sleep later, I woke up with my stomach still hurting, but help would be on the way soon. Hunched over, I rolled out of bed, pulled on sweatpants, and hobbled down to the student health center. After a fantastic weekend, it only seemed fair that my week should start off terribly. I thought I'd made amends for the fun I'd had Saturday night with my Sunday morning hangover, but apparently the party gods still wanted me to repent for my drinking. However, it was worth it. Even though I felt as if I was going to shit out my stomach, I was still blissfully happy about how much fun I'd had at the party Saturday, not to mention how much fun I'd had after the party with the hottie from my Linguistics discussion.
After a Trail of Tears-esque walk, I was finally at the doctor. I checked in for my appointment and went to sit in the waiting area. The waiting rooms in doctors offices are my absolute favorite place to people watch. There were plenty of people occupying the seats around me that looked as if they were at death's door, but those weren't the people I was interested in. It's the ones who appear to have nothing wrong with them; those are the ones that have the most interesting reason for being there. They have STD written all over them.
I was in the middle of deciding whether the blonde girl across from me looked more like a "herpes" or a "chlamydia" when I was called over by a nurse. She brought me into a room, took my height and weight (ugh), then said the doctor would come see me shortly.
As I waited for the doctor, I took out my phone to text my mom. I'd told her I was having stomach pains last night, and ever since then I could practically feel her having a panic attack, even from 2,000 miles away. I reassured her with a text, "at the doctor's now! your little girl is going to be just fine!" Moments later she replied with "wish I could be there with you! love you baby!"
Just then, the doctor opened the door and gave me what I assume was a smile.
"Alright now, what seems to be the problem?" She took a seat and pulled out a form covered clipboard.
"Well, last night I couldn't sleep because I was having really intense stomach cramps, and now they've carried over to this morning."
She went on to ask all the usual questions: "Are you allergic to any medications?" "Are you currently taking any medications?" "Any history of heart disease/diabetes/high blood pressure in your family?" "When was the date of your last period?"
The last one made me stop and think. I was silent for about five seconds as I flipped back through my mental calendar. Finally, I broke the silence, "End of August."
The doctor paused. Never looking up from her clipboard, she said "Well, that's quite a while."
She was right. It was November. Anyone who's graduated from kindergarten could've told me that it's been over a month since August.
"When was the last time you had sex?" Her eyes still on the clipboard.
Oh, you've got this one, you're fine, I told myself, confident that my last date of intercourse was uncontroversial. "Like, sex-sex?"
"Either vaginal or oral."
Oh. "Saturday."
"And how long have you been with that partner?"
Is that actually on the fucking form? Who wrote these, my mother?? "Uhh," well this was uncomfortable, "not really at all..."
"Do you drink?"
Fucking duh. "Yes."
"Do you smoke?"
Yes. "Not regularly."
"How often do you drink?"
"Umm, like, twice a week," I lied.
"And how many drinks do you drink in a night?"
"Four or five-ish." Another lie.
"Do you ever black out?"
"Not regularly."I pretended to itch my nose but was really checking to see if it was growing from lying so much.
Still focused on the form she said, "The concern doctors have about blacking out is that you'll partake in sexual activity and not be able to remember whether it happened and whether or not you practiced safe sex."
I gulped heavily.
She scribbled down some things on her clipboard and I could tell my medical forms were turning into a burn book. Diagnosis: grotsky little biotch.
At last she looked up from the clipboard. "Do you use protection?"
"Yes," I said with a look in my eyes that cried please don't call my mom.
"Have you taken a pregnancy test since your last missed period?"
"No, but I mean, I'm not. Like, I'm definitely not."I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince, her or myself. As if the nurse hadn't made me feel bad enough when she took my weight, the doctor made me feel like a deplorable whore. Going to the doctor was supposed to fix whatever was bothering you, but this appointment had made me feel even worse.
"Okay, well I'm going to have you take one just to be safe. As for your stomach pains, I've written you a prescription for a low dosage painkiller. If your symptoms persist after a couple of days, come back for a follow-up visit." She handed me a little plastic bag with a small container and a set of directions in it. "As for the test, I'll email you the results within 24 hours."
I grabbed the bag in a lightheaded daze. "Thank you," and thank you for attaching a timebomb to my new pregnancy paranoia.
The week earlier, I'd had midterms that I'd hardly studied for and guessed on practically every multiple choice question, but this test I felt least confident after taking. I gave my test answers to the nurse, and walked back to my dorm in a stressed out, tense trance.
It was impossible to do anything. I couldn't watch TV because every show and commercial coincidentally had a baby or toddler in it, I couldn't do any homework because when I sat at my computer all I could do was refresh my email, and I couldn't sleep because my mind was racing too fast to settle into an REM cycle. So I laid in my bed with the lights off and blinds shut, and just let my mind race. I did this for so many hours that when I finally got up from my bed it was dark outside. I sleepwalked over to my computer and checked my email. I was in a haze until I realized I had a message in my inbox. With that my mind jolted awake and my pulse began pounding. My hand was shaking so badly that it took me several tries to fix the mouse on the message to click it open. Finally, my motor skills allowed me to read the message. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my throat.
My eyes scanned over the screen until I found the word "negative." After that, I reread the message at least ten times before it finally resonated with me you're fine, and furthermore you don't have to call mom with some very bad news.
"YES!!!" I jumped feet into the air when midjump I realized my stomach was still in excruciating pain. Consequently, instead of landing the jump, I fell to the floor, but still kept screaming in joy. Within the span of 10 hours, I'd gone from having nothing more than serious stomach pains, to being possibly pregnant, to being definitely not pregnant with serious stomach pains and possibly a broken ankle. As much as I bitch about my period when I have it, on that day I learned that having it is better than not having it at all.


Just Friends? Just Kidding.

As evident in almost any romantic comedy ever made, it has been said that boys and girls can never be "just friends." There's a variety of cliches following the formula "the only person a girl can trust is her dad/girlfriends/dog," but it is unanimously agreed that a girl cannot trust any non-related, heterosexual boy. Nearly consistently throughout my entire (un)romantic life I've found this to be the case. Whenever I'm happily involved with a guy, the relationship is nothing more than a rapidly ticking time bomb that is in danger of exploding at any given moment, resulting in the annihilation of my chances at a happy ending. Depressing, I know. On a positive note, at home in New Jersey I'm blessed with the best guy friends a girl could ever ask for (I attribute this to the fact that these boys knew me during my awkward phase), so while I never had a high school sweetheart, that male void was filled platonically. However, at college I have only one guy friend. The rest of the guys I consider "friends" are guys that I hooked up with and are on good terms with after the fact. And, you guessed it, the remaining male population at this school are guys that I hooked up with and am on not-so-good terms with.
For my sorority, I was presented with the stressful task of inviting someone to my date party. I didn't have anyone that I was interested in at the moment, so I decided to invite the only guy friend I had that I had never hooked up with and furthermore never wanted to. This situation ended up being absolutely ideal because the night before the date party I ended up being letdown by a guy I'd really liked and had hooked up with on numerous occasions. I woke up unfortunately alone, and in a hungover/depressed state that I'd been so disappointed by someone I'd liked so much. I'd lost my faith in men (yet again), so I was genuinely relieved to be going to my date party with my guy friend.
"Last night was terrible, we need to have the funnest time ever tonight!!" I texted him.
"Love, you're going to have the best night of your life," he answered. In all honestly, I kind of suspected he'd never tried to get with me because he was gay.
Feeling a little better, I slept off the rest of my hangover and woke up much later that afternoon with enough time to grab some dinner and get ready for the party. Then, I went over to my date's place to pregame for the event. Being around a friend had taken my mind off of my shitty experience with guys the night before and I was back to being in a good mood. The pregame was fun, but once we got on the bus to the venue it hit me hard that not everybody was there as friends. In fact, being entrapped by the rows of drunk people making out it seemed that nobody was just friends. Things were better when we got to the venue. There were more people using their mouths to talk rather than make out, the DJ was decent, and my date had scored a drink bracelet and kept buying me drinks like a good date should. Somewhere between all the vodka tonics, three hours had passed and it was time to get on the bus home.  I was tired from the hours of drinking and dancing, but it seemed my date was even more tired by the way he started leaning onto me. In that moment, my drunken haze cleared and I realized he's not trying to sleep on me, he's trying to hook up with me. I tensed up and cheated my back towards him which seemed to do the trick. He straightened up and we snapped back into our normal banter. The bus arrived back at campus, but since it was only 12 the night was still pretty young. I was going to walk back to my dorm, but my date looked disappointed with that.
"Come back to the house and hang, it's so early!" He said. I was drunk enough to disregard what he'd seemingly tried to pull on the bus, but clearminded enough to trust him since he was my friend.
But once we got to his room it was blatant that he didn't consider me a friend the same way I considered him one. He immediately started kissing me, to which I hesitated.
"Come on, stop."
"What, why?" His mouth wasn't on mine anymore, but he was still heavily in my personal space.
"Because we're friends!"
"But Love, we will still be friends even if we hook up a little!" This time when he called me Love, I didn't think he might be gay.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, of course!" I'm not sure why I listened to him, I guess my subconscious still trusted him as "a friend," so I didn't leave the room and even though I was uncomfortable with it I let him kiss me.
I wanted so badly to leave, but I just kept on letting the hook up happen. Every so often I'd snap out of it and ask "Okay, will you walk me home?" to which he'd reply, "Of course, Love! Just in a couple minutes." A couple minutes came and went, until I didn't even know how much time had gone by. I stop letting my subconscious trust reign, and my conscious realized we were both completely naked. It was time to get out of here before anything else happened. Fueled by anxiety, I sat up and pulled on my clothes. When I turned back around to tell "my friend" that it was time to walk me home, he was lying there passed out. I tried to shake him awake.
"Come on, wake up." But he wouldn't move. "Seriously, come on, you need to walk me home." Still nothing.
I wanted to call a cab but I had no money. In that moment I had to turn to the only people I could depend on, and that was my girl friends. I pulled out my phone to call my friend with a car, when I saw it was 3:30 in the morning. Please wake up, please wake up, I prayed as the phone rang.
"Hello?" Her sleepy voice said on the line.
"I am so sorry to wake you up, I just really need your help." I tried to keep my voice as low as I could so not to wake my "friend."
"What's wrong?" Her voice became more alert.
"My date party turned out really badly... Do you think there's any way you could come pick me up?"
"Yeah, of course. Are you okay?"
"Eh, not really..."
"I'm coming now. You're at his place?"
"Yeah, I am. Oh my God, thank you so much," I couldn't believe it. I was so thankful to have such a good friend. With heels in hand, I snuck out of his room as quietly as I could. Sure enough, a couple minutes later my friends car pulled up outside. I didn't know whether to cry of happiness or cry because I was so mad about what had just happened.
Not only was my romantic faith in guys destroyed, now my platonic faith in guys was destroyed too. I'd trusted this guy as a friend and he destroyed everything. He had failed to walk me home as a friend, but coming to my rescue was my girl friend who drove me to sleep over at her apartment. While my guy friend had passed out after promising to walk me home, my girl friend had woken up at 3:30 in the morning and picked me up. Once we got to her apartment, she sat up with me and listened to me talk about what had happened. She told me that while this guy was an asshole, she's always be here for me and then she tucked me into bed. That was the night that I learned I could only and always depend on my girlfriends.


Wake Up In The Morning Feeling Like Pee Diddy

I am not a morning person. My grades for my morning classes are always my worst, my roommates are scared to talk to me before I've had my coffee, and my hangovers have earned me the nickname 'Grumpy.' This is exactly the reason why I hate having sleepovers with the opposite sex. I'm no longer the fun, sexy girl they met the night before, I'm the haggard, disgruntled monster hogging all the covers. Whenever I spend away from the comforts of my own bed, I always try to leave as early as possible while having the briefest sober conversation possible. This is easiest when either the guy wakes up before I do, or I can pull the "ughh I have Friday morning class!" card. Neither of these transitions were available to me this past Sunday morning. I awoke at 8 am in a bed that was not mine next to a man whose name I could not remember. Not only was I uncomfortable with this sober situation, I also felt the pressure of every drink I'd drank the night before in my bladder, and trust me, I'd drank a lot of drinks. I didn't care if it made me a bad person, I was ready to run out of the apartment before What's-His-Name even woke up. I tensed my muscles ready to make a run for the door, but as soon as I started to roll out of the bed What's-His-Name gripped me harder. He was spooning me with a vise-grip, rendering me trapped! However, while the rest of my body was in paralysis, one arm was free. With that one arm I felt around the floor blindly for my purse. I found the chain link strap then shimmied my hand down the strap to the pocket of my purse that my phone was in. I raised my phone high enough to see the screen, but low enough so if What's-His-Name happened to wake up he wouldn't see me on my phone.
My bladder was in critical condition, so I 911-ed a text to my friend I'd gone out with the night before.
"SOS. Call me in 10 min." I had a plan worked out in my head, but I needed the help of a girlfriend to pull it off. I turned my ringtone to "Calls Only." What's-His-Name couldn't be woken just yet.
"Haha, okay. So last night was bad?" She answered in the next minute. At 8 am on a Sunday. That's a good fucking friend.
"No, but the morning is. Pretend we have breakfast plans." I placed my phone back on the floor next to me and cozied into the spoon.
I'm either going to die from my bladder exploding, or I'm going to pee the bed. I wanted to just urinate right there in the bed, but I couldn't remember if What's-His-Name was average cute or fucking sexy so I didn't want to take the chance. Just hold on a little longer, bladder. Help is on the way.
Sure enough, exactly ten minutes later my phone started ringing. I put on a pseudo-disilusioned air and pretended to wake up as I felt What's-His-Name genuinely waking up beside me.
"Mmhmm... Hello?" I muttered sleepily into the phone.
"Hey... I don't really know what to say," my friend's voice was like angels singing a song of salvation straight to my bladder.
"Shit, what time is it?" I said, 'snapping out' of my groggy demeanor.
"Is he still asleep?" She asked.
"I'm so sorry, I almost forgot!" I sat up in bed.
"So, how was his penis?"
"Nooo don't be mad! I'll be there, I promise," I grabbed at the foot of the bed for my dress.
"Did you blue-ball him?" I would've gotten annoyed with her if she hadn't been my savior.
"Ok, I'm coming now, bye." It was truly an Oscar winning performance.
I hung up the phone and turned to the previously unconscious body next to me. "Hey," I said in a sleepy, morning voice that contrasted drastically with the urgent, my-bladder's-going-to-burst voice that was screaming in my head, "so I actually have to get going now."
"That's okay," he smiled sleepily. "Damn, it's so early. Where do you have to be?"
I let out a big sigh to emphasize how much of a burden my morning engagement was and said "It's so dumb, I promised my friend I'd get brunch with her and her boyfriend from home." I took a pause for an exaggerated eye roll, "I know, it's retarded, but it's one of those stupid things that girls get really mad about." Even I was convinced. However, my bladder was not convinced and was threatening to call my bluff right there on his mattress, so I jumped out of the bed and put my clothes back on even faster than I'd ripped them off the night before.
"Well, I had a good time with you last night," he said, burying his face back into his pillow.
"Yeah, so did I," my body was shaking I had to pee so bad. I moved closer to the door, so close to bliss, "Oh, which way's the bathroom?" I had a casual tone or voice, but in reality the question was life-or-death.
"Last door on the left," What's-His-Name replied.
"Thanks!" I said happily, showing genuine emotion for the first time this morning. Then I sprinted out the door towards emancipation and never looked back.


Going Out With A Bang

Anybody who leaves their dorm room on the weekends (and by weekend I mean starting Thursday) knows what I'm talking about when I say there are two types of nights: good nights and bad nights. A bad night normally consists of either vomit, getting in trouble with Campus PD, seeing the person you like make out with someone else, or all of the above. A good night, however, is much more simple. To have a good night, something happens along the lines of: finally hooking up with the guy you've been texting for a while, making out with a good looking stranger, hooking up with anyone in front of someone you used to hook up with, or getting head without having to give head. When you wake up and your dehydrated brain remembers that one of these things happened, it sends a signal to your kidneys that their slow self-destruction was worth it. But as is illustrated by the examples above, hooking up with someone almost always guarantees a good night. Which arrives at my point: if you don't hook up with anyone, is it a bad night?
I'm going to take a stand and say that the reason we go out is to get some. If we wanted to spend time with our friends we'd be in our yoga pants and glasses watching Sex and the City, not in our platforms and high waisted skirts getting wasted. When we go out at night, we literally go out in hopes of a bang, which is why we feel dissatisfied when we don't end our night with a new tale to tell. Even when the hook up isn't good, the night is still successful when you have an interesting story to tell your friends over brunch the next morning. Even though we can't always remember who we talked to at whatever party we were at, we can always remember who we were making out with when we had to pretend to go "find our friend" so we could escape to the bathroom to vomit in the urinal rather than in their mouth. It is that type of battle story that defines our weekend, not the platonic chat with frat boy Bob about how our cousins went to the same boarding school in New Hampshire. No one wants to hear that shit over brunch, and friendly talking is no reason for enduring a hangover.


Writer's Cockblock

I have recently experienced what I can honestly declare to be the worst writer's block known to my existence. For the past month and a half I've been rendered speechless, even compositionally handicapped, as I haven't been able to form so much as a string of sentences describing the current events of my personal life. This experience that I've taken to calling my 'writer's cockblock' stems from the fact that I haven't been cockblocked at all. In fact, I've recently been getting action on a more regular and functional basis than ever before in my nineteen years of living, and I think the functionality of it all is what's causing my writer's cockblock. I feared I'd lost my voice, my sense of who I am, when morning after morning I'd wake up fresh from a hookup the night before only to find I couldn't write anything about it.
Ever since I was a junior in high school, the entire base of my writing has been kiss-and-tell-all essay after kiss-and-tell-all essay about every single guy I hooked up with, what it was like, and my vividly uncensored thoughts of how I felt about them. But that habit came to an abrupt halt when I started hooking up with one of my guy friends this summer. We hooked up more regularly than I had with the guys I went to college with, so therefore I had more experiences to write upon, but for some reason I couldn't do it! Before I knew it, a month had passed without my writing a single fucking thing! Unable to write new material, I could only read through my archives of old essays from every drunken weekend of the past 3 years.
"You haven't updated your blog recently," my friend noted one day while we were watching TV.
"Yeah, I know, its just weird writing about what's been going on recently. For some reason I have like, nothing to say. Well, not like I have nothing to say, I just can't seem to say anything."
"Huh, why do you think that is?" She muted the Laguna Beach rerun.
"Ugh, I don't know! Like, remember the other night when all us girls were hanging out and you asked me how things had been going with him and I couldn't really give an answer and got weirdly quiet? That's like, bizarre of me, I normally word vomit my guy stories."
"Yeah, I mean, you do normally love talking about that kind of stuff, but maybe you feel weird now because you actually like this guy."
"No, no, that can't be it, I've liked guys before that I've written abo-" She had a point. In that moment I realized that I had never actually liked any of the guys I'd written about. Sure, I'd had crushes on them and had been obsessed with a couple, but that was just because they had the whole 'attractive asshole' thing going for them. Looking through my archives, I'd realized that on some level I'd hated every guy I'd hooked up with in college.  It became apparent in retrospect that I'd kept them around because I'd enjoyed hooking up with them on a shallow level, but on a human and even friend level I couldn't fucking stand them. And that was the complete opposite of what had happened with my guy friend. I had absolutely no ill feelings towards him and liked him as a person, so therefore I had nothing mean to say. And so goes the saying, "if you have nothing mean to say, don't say anything at all."


Crouching Taylor, Unhidden Dancing

When you go out at night and drink, it's pretty much a given that you're going to wake up in pain. Fun is never free, and after a night of drinking you pay for that fun with a hangover. The painful headache, dry mouth, bloodshot eyes, looming nausea, and unexplainable bruises are always to be expected when you regain consciousness. But then there are the occasional mornings when your legs are throbbing more than your head is; I'm talking about those mornings when you got so drunk the night before that you danced like what you thought was a video girl but probably looked more like an epileptic. It isn't unheard of to wake up with bruises and scratches on your legs from things like falling out of bunk beds and peeing in rose bushes, but there's a specific pain of ones thigh muscles that can only come from grinding. It's that deep pain in your quads and glutes that's enough to tell you wow, I went way too hard last night.
Dancing is a volatile business because when you're sober-dancing it almost always looks awkward, like the first time you grinded with someone at your best friend's bat mitzvah, and when you're drunk-dancing it almost always looks sloppy, like the first time you gave someone a lap dance at your best friend's sweet sixteen. Regardless of the setting, your dance moves always look better in your head than they do in practice. When I was in 7th grade, I was at least a head taller than every boy in my class so at parties I would have to practically squat when I danced with one of them (that is, if they weren't scared away by my braces/acne combo.) Years later and leveling out at just under 6', I still had to crouch when dancing at sweet sixteens, and because I was pants-shittingly drunk at every one I attended this included a great deal of "dropping it low," which in reality probably looked like I was crouching down to drop a deuce. And even to this day as a 19 year old without a 21 year old ID, I have to wear heels with my little black dress to flirt(/slur) my way into the club, which means I'm still taller than the men I dance with and I'm still drunk enough to think it looks cool when I drop it low. But even worse than my height making me a horrible dancer is the fact that my height makes my dancing go unhidden.


Jabba The Slut

Recent events have caused me to believe that my life constitutes as both a comedy and a tragedy. It's a comedy for those watching the tragic events that happen to me on a daily basis. Most often, the tragic events are things like the time I was about to hook up with this guy I really liked but then he started throwing up, or the time I was getting my eyebrows waxed and the old asian woman accidentally groped me, or when I brought that guy back to my dorm and he kept trying to finger my butthole (see: "Butthole Intruder"). I've grown accustomed to tragic events happening to me, but never did I think about the ways I make my own life tragic. Some people are born tragic, others have tragedy thrust upon them, but today's tragic event was completely my doing.
I doing my typical "I have nothing to wear" routine this morning while I was trying to get dressed. Dissatisfied with every piece of clothing that I own, I trekked across the hall into my sisters room and sought refuge in her closet.
"Oh my god, yes! I forgot she had this!" I pulled out a classic American Apparel spandex dress that I used to steal from my sister all the time in high school. It had been my go-to dress for countless parties; this dress and I had so many fond memories together that I decided to bring it out of retirement for the day. The dress and I retreated back to my room and with exhilaration I compressed my body into its spandex binding. But my exhilaration turned into desperation the second I saw my reflection in the mirror. The dress looked very different on my current self than it did on my high school self to say the least. Whereas last year the dress used to silhouette my figure in a sexy way, the spandex was grasping my body creating rolls I didn't even know I had. My body was packed into the dress dying to bust out, like a sausage, or those health class bananas that are too big for their condoms. The dress no longer consisted of enough fabric for my apparently obese body, making me look like both a whore and glutton. I was Jabba The Slut.
"How did this happen to me?" I asked my reflection. Up until then I hadn't thought my body had changed in college, but once I began thinking about how my lifestyle had changed it made more and more sense. My diet of drinking three nights a weekend had definitely contributed, and in addition my drunken nights had almost always ended in me knocking on my neighbor's doors asking to borrow a dollar for the vending machine. Who knew fratting was so fattening? Even worse than my deplorably gluttonous diet was the fact that my going-outfits had only gotten smaller and tighter throughout the semester to the extent that I really should have charged whichever frat boy was walking up the stairs behind me. My college lifestyle had gotten the best of me and I'd turned into Jabba The Slut completely unknowingly. I changed my body out of the spandex dress, tied up my running shoes, and hoped the force would be with me during my three miler.