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.
Showing posts with label Drinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drinking. Show all posts
4.18.2012
3.13.2012
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.
"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.
2.27.2012
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.
"Baby?"
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.
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.
"Baby?"
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.
2.20.2012
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.
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.
1.03.2012
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.
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.
12.27.2011
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 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.
11.09.2011
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.
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.
11.03.2011
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.
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.
10.11.2011
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.
7.28.2011
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.
7.21.2011
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.
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.
7.10.2011
Don't Speak.
Sometimes it's better to drink so much that you have no memory of what happened the night before. That way you are able to endure your hangover in a state of ignorance-is-bliss. Unfortunately, I did not wake up in such a state of bliss; rather, I got drunk enough to spill all the thoughts occupying my mind, but not drunk enough to erase the action from my memory. Instead, I've spent my grueling hangover cringing, able to remember all my slurs verbatim. In all honesty, this is the way I spend most of my hangovers. I can't always be counted on to remember to take my ADD medicine, or to be at work on time, but you can always depend on me to lose my filter once I start drinking. Normally I'm able to get by without facing the repercussions of my words, however, last night I said too much to my circle of friends. The people I hang out with everyday. Even when I'm sober.
It all happened when my parents made the rare move of leaving me home alone this weekend, an opportunity I seized by inviting my friends over to daydrink. As enthusiastic as I was to get drunk and tan, I was equally eager to hook up with somebody. I hated the thought of being left in my unsupervised house full of possibilities only to not make the absolute most of it. I felt pressure to rise to the occasion and have someone to fool around with come night. That's when my eyes went straight to one of my good friends. I'd always had a somewhat secret crush on this friend and since he was single he became an ideal candidate.
With a goal in mind, I naturally began flirting. This is when things started going downhill. I was trying to be funny and flirty simultaneously which explains the following: my excessive sex jokes, my insisting that we make the afternoon "beach themed" in order to a) get everybody drunker than they intended, thanks to my blender, and b) give me a reason for wearing my bikini, and then finally doing my signature drunk-flirting move (actually, I don't even think it's clever enough to constitute as "flirting") of putting my fist in my mouth.
A million frozen drinks later the sun went down, and, still in my bikini and officially wasted, I was completely goal-oriented. According to my drunken logic, since the previous maneuvers hadn't accomplished anything it only made sense that I hadn't been obvious enough. I stupidly decided that I needed to be a more aggressive flirter. But much to my dismay, I'd apparently decided this too late.
"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home, I'm pretty wiped out from today. Thanks for having me, though." He moved towards my front door, and instinctively I tried to intercept.
Time to think fast, "No, you can't leave yet!"
"What, why not?"
"Because I'll be all alone!" This would have made sense if we hadn't just been drinking with all our friends in my kitchen.
"Haha, no you won't, the rest of the crew is still here!" He made moves towards the doorknob, causing me to lose the little composure I had.
"But you still can't leave!"
"I don't get it, why?"
"Because you're cute," Drunken prose was just dribbling out of my mouth. I'd wanted someone to fool around with, but instead I was just a drunken fool.
Before either of us had a chance to digest what I'd just word vomited on our conversation, the rest of our friends came into the entrance hall.
"Aw, dude are you leaving?"
He looked around, "Yeah, I'm gonna head home now."
As soon as it became clear that even after my drunken confession I'd been unable to reach my goal, my confidence deflated like the cheap and faulty gel-padded bras I used to wear in 7th grade that offered no support and could only be relied on to pop and seep gel through my shirt, making my awkwardly pubescent appearance even worse when I thought I'd already hit rock bottom with my lanky-yet-chubby frame, glasses, braces, and untameable eyebrow(s). Whereas earlier that day I was trying to be funny by putting my fist in my mouth, I'd now successfully gotten my big feet into my even bigger mouth.
"But I'll see you tomorrow?" he offered as he hugged me goodbye.
Yeah, you're right, I thought to myself. I will see you tomorrow. And the day after, and all the days following that until the end of summer when we go back off to college. And then I'll see you at Thanksgiving break.
Per usual, there was a silver-lining to my drunken misstep that provided a lesson learned: while a parent-less house seems like a goldmine of opportunity, it is key to remember that silence is golden.
It all happened when my parents made the rare move of leaving me home alone this weekend, an opportunity I seized by inviting my friends over to daydrink. As enthusiastic as I was to get drunk and tan, I was equally eager to hook up with somebody. I hated the thought of being left in my unsupervised house full of possibilities only to not make the absolute most of it. I felt pressure to rise to the occasion and have someone to fool around with come night. That's when my eyes went straight to one of my good friends. I'd always had a somewhat secret crush on this friend and since he was single he became an ideal candidate.
With a goal in mind, I naturally began flirting. This is when things started going downhill. I was trying to be funny and flirty simultaneously which explains the following: my excessive sex jokes, my insisting that we make the afternoon "beach themed" in order to a) get everybody drunker than they intended, thanks to my blender, and b) give me a reason for wearing my bikini, and then finally doing my signature drunk-flirting move (actually, I don't even think it's clever enough to constitute as "flirting") of putting my fist in my mouth.
A million frozen drinks later the sun went down, and, still in my bikini and officially wasted, I was completely goal-oriented. According to my drunken logic, since the previous maneuvers hadn't accomplished anything it only made sense that I hadn't been obvious enough. I stupidly decided that I needed to be a more aggressive flirter. But much to my dismay, I'd apparently decided this too late.
"Hey, I think I'm gonna head home, I'm pretty wiped out from today. Thanks for having me, though." He moved towards my front door, and instinctively I tried to intercept.
Time to think fast, "No, you can't leave yet!"
"What, why not?"
"Because I'll be all alone!" This would have made sense if we hadn't just been drinking with all our friends in my kitchen.
"Haha, no you won't, the rest of the crew is still here!" He made moves towards the doorknob, causing me to lose the little composure I had.
"But you still can't leave!"
"I don't get it, why?"
"Because you're cute," Drunken prose was just dribbling out of my mouth. I'd wanted someone to fool around with, but instead I was just a drunken fool.
Before either of us had a chance to digest what I'd just word vomited on our conversation, the rest of our friends came into the entrance hall.
"Aw, dude are you leaving?"
He looked around, "Yeah, I'm gonna head home now."
As soon as it became clear that even after my drunken confession I'd been unable to reach my goal, my confidence deflated like the cheap and faulty gel-padded bras I used to wear in 7th grade that offered no support and could only be relied on to pop and seep gel through my shirt, making my awkwardly pubescent appearance even worse when I thought I'd already hit rock bottom with my lanky-yet-chubby frame, glasses, braces, and untameable eyebrow(s). Whereas earlier that day I was trying to be funny by putting my fist in my mouth, I'd now successfully gotten my big feet into my even bigger mouth.
"But I'll see you tomorrow?" he offered as he hugged me goodbye.
Yeah, you're right, I thought to myself. I will see you tomorrow. And the day after, and all the days following that until the end of summer when we go back off to college. And then I'll see you at Thanksgiving break.
Per usual, there was a silver-lining to my drunken misstep that provided a lesson learned: while a parent-less house seems like a goldmine of opportunity, it is key to remember that silence is golden.
6.21.2011
Eyes Wide Open
There comes a time in every walk home when the front door is reached and the inevitable goodnight kiss commences. You thank the guy who just walked you home, and from there it's like clockwork. His hand finds its way to the small of your back, you look up (or if you're me, you look directly level) at him and your faces close in on each other. The kiss starts out soft, but then the world begins to whirl around your bodies. If you're sober, this the whirling of your emotions, indicating that you really like this guy. If you're not, this is the churning of your stomach, indicating that you took one to many shots. While the sober girl doesn't invite the man who walked her home inside because she wants to take things slow, the not-sober girl doesn't invite the man who walked her home inside because he's bound to get a mouthful of nastiness before she will.
The other night I went to a party within walking distance from my house and continued to get obliterated in bliss knowing that I didn't have to worry about finding a ride home. Hours later into the early morning people began clearing out and I suddenly grew less confident about walking home alone. I slurred out a plea for company and in response a guy friend of mine offered to walk me home. While I found this to be a nice, wholesome gesture, I didn't take into consideration that when you're wearing a spandex dress, you have no guy friends. We walked the two blocks to my house and once we reached the front door, it was like drunken clockwork. His hand had found my lower back (and by "lower back" I mean my ass), our faces closed in on each others, and we began slobering at each others faces like dogs. The world began to whirl around me as it suddenly hit me, if my eyes are closed any longer, I'm going to throw up in this guys mouth.
I'd been hit hard with the spins, so I opened my eyes, but even that didn't help. I needed to focus my vision on something. As if it'd been a BBM from God, I instantaneously felt the vibrate of my phone, so I stealthily pulled my blackberry out of my pocket and began reading my messages over his shoulder while we made out. He didn't realize for a good minute and a half until I started responding to my texts.
"What are you doing?" he pulled away.
"What? Oh!" I opened my eyes as wide as humanly possible and stared at my phone, as if I, too, was surprised it was in my hand. "I was just, uh, checking the time."
"How about we go inside?" I didn't know how I would keep my vision focused on my phone now that I apparently was up-to-date on what time it was. I also didn't know how to tell him that the only thing that would be getting it in tonight would be my toilet bowl.
"My parents are asleep," as if that's stopped me before.
"Bummer, well goodnight. We'll hang another time." He kissed me goodnight.
"Yeah, definitely," I watched him walk down my driveway, then I held up my hand with my phone still in it and slurred out "text me!"
The other night I went to a party within walking distance from my house and continued to get obliterated in bliss knowing that I didn't have to worry about finding a ride home. Hours later into the early morning people began clearing out and I suddenly grew less confident about walking home alone. I slurred out a plea for company and in response a guy friend of mine offered to walk me home. While I found this to be a nice, wholesome gesture, I didn't take into consideration that when you're wearing a spandex dress, you have no guy friends. We walked the two blocks to my house and once we reached the front door, it was like drunken clockwork. His hand had found my lower back (and by "lower back" I mean my ass), our faces closed in on each others, and we began slobering at each others faces like dogs. The world began to whirl around me as it suddenly hit me, if my eyes are closed any longer, I'm going to throw up in this guys mouth.
I'd been hit hard with the spins, so I opened my eyes, but even that didn't help. I needed to focus my vision on something. As if it'd been a BBM from God, I instantaneously felt the vibrate of my phone, so I stealthily pulled my blackberry out of my pocket and began reading my messages over his shoulder while we made out. He didn't realize for a good minute and a half until I started responding to my texts.
"What are you doing?" he pulled away.
"What? Oh!" I opened my eyes as wide as humanly possible and stared at my phone, as if I, too, was surprised it was in my hand. "I was just, uh, checking the time."
"How about we go inside?" I didn't know how I would keep my vision focused on my phone now that I apparently was up-to-date on what time it was. I also didn't know how to tell him that the only thing that would be getting it in tonight would be my toilet bowl.
"My parents are asleep," as if that's stopped me before.
"Bummer, well goodnight. We'll hang another time." He kissed me goodnight.
"Yeah, definitely," I watched him walk down my driveway, then I held up my hand with my phone still in it and slurred out "text me!"
5.26.2011
Oops... I Did It Again
The only thing worse than a terrible hook up is the second time you get with that same terrible hook up. The first time you make this mistake, you're freed from blame since there's really no provisional indicator of a bad hook-up. Bad hook-ups are dangerous because their looks and personality are indistinguishable from the good hook-ups, and that's exactly how they trap you in. When you have a terrible hook up, you learn your lesson quickly (sometimes very quickly) and then move on to the next one. But the second time is unforgivable, even irredeemable. You're totally cognizant of what this hook up has in store, yet somehow you find yourself in the same situation all over again. Except this time, things move much more slowly since your thoughts are decelerated on the fact that you're a fucking idiot. By some great, unknown force of nature, you suddenly find yourself eyes closed, lips locked, and while everything you're doing is blurring through you, you produce a single lucid thought that says how did I end up here again? You feel like an absolute idiot for wandering into the same trap twice, and you come to the actualization that you're a lot less smart than you thought you were. When I was a freshman in high school, I drank too much (feigning surprise) and long-story-short woke up in the hospital with my parents at my bedside engulfed in distress and concern. As a novice drinker, I didn't dwell on my stupid mistake and moved on from the incident. But all of seven months later during my sophomore year I drank too much and wound up in the hospital again. This time when I woke my parents' didn't wear looks of worry, but rather of indomitable anger. My mistake wasn't cute anymore, and so it goes I was sentenced to five months of parentally run house arrest to dwell on what a retard I was.
It turns out I didn't get a hell of a lot smarter in college. While the mistake of repeating a bad hook up didn't land an IV in my arm, it still makes me want to vomit blood. I know how I made the mistake the first time- the guy was absolutely gorgeous. But as I discovered, his looks only acted as a disguise for his dire bedroom skills. It was hard coming to terms with the fact that someone so beautiful could make me want to lynch myself from his top bunk using my bra, but my lesson had been learned and there was no way I was going in that bedroom again. In my sober state of mind I arbitrated that I did not under any circumstances want to hook up with him again. I did, however, want to remain friends with him because in addition to being inconveniently gorgeous he was also a pretty nice guy. So the next weekend when I received a text from him inviting me to a party I didn't hesitate to round up my troops and head over. It was fun hanging out and drinking with him and his friends, but then suddenly it became too much fun. He was starting to flirt with me, and much to my sober-dismay I started flirting back. Even though I was getting pretty drunk, it can't be blamed entirely on the alcohol. I was getting sucked in the same way I'd gotten sucked in the last time; he was visually hypnotizing, and working in cohorts with his looks was his personality, which was charming the shit out of me. As we continued our witty banter the distance between our bodies was diminishing and people slowly started clearing out of the room. It wasn't as if either of us was consciously making movements, it was like some gravitational force was pulling us together. And that is how by some power unknown to me I found myself kissing (okay, groping) the same bad kisser (groper) I'd told myself I never wanted to kiss/grope ever again. The last time we started kissing I experienced a mental shift from totally turned on to repulsed. This time, when we started kissing I made the shift from turned on to repulsed with myself. Again being deceived by his looks and charm, my feeling of remorse was the same, but this time it was joined by extreme self-disdain. I didn't know if this even constituted as being deceived since technically I was perfectly aware of what was in store from the second I started flirting back with him. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, I'm never drinking again. Until next weekend.
It turns out I didn't get a hell of a lot smarter in college. While the mistake of repeating a bad hook up didn't land an IV in my arm, it still makes me want to vomit blood. I know how I made the mistake the first time- the guy was absolutely gorgeous. But as I discovered, his looks only acted as a disguise for his dire bedroom skills. It was hard coming to terms with the fact that someone so beautiful could make me want to lynch myself from his top bunk using my bra, but my lesson had been learned and there was no way I was going in that bedroom again. In my sober state of mind I arbitrated that I did not under any circumstances want to hook up with him again. I did, however, want to remain friends with him because in addition to being inconveniently gorgeous he was also a pretty nice guy. So the next weekend when I received a text from him inviting me to a party I didn't hesitate to round up my troops and head over. It was fun hanging out and drinking with him and his friends, but then suddenly it became too much fun. He was starting to flirt with me, and much to my sober-dismay I started flirting back. Even though I was getting pretty drunk, it can't be blamed entirely on the alcohol. I was getting sucked in the same way I'd gotten sucked in the last time; he was visually hypnotizing, and working in cohorts with his looks was his personality, which was charming the shit out of me. As we continued our witty banter the distance between our bodies was diminishing and people slowly started clearing out of the room. It wasn't as if either of us was consciously making movements, it was like some gravitational force was pulling us together. And that is how by some power unknown to me I found myself kissing (okay, groping) the same bad kisser (groper) I'd told myself I never wanted to kiss/grope ever again. The last time we started kissing I experienced a mental shift from totally turned on to repulsed. This time, when we started kissing I made the shift from turned on to repulsed with myself. Again being deceived by his looks and charm, my feeling of remorse was the same, but this time it was joined by extreme self-disdain. I didn't know if this even constituted as being deceived since technically I was perfectly aware of what was in store from the second I started flirting back with him. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, I'm never drinking again. Until next weekend.
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