>>> About Last Night…
By staff writer Ali Wisch
February 22, 2006
It’s Friday morning and you wake up with two things on your mind. One: it’s 10:15, meaning your 9:30 AM class started 45 minutes ago, and two: tonight is the second to last night in your weekend in which there is a possibility of getting any ass. You stumble to the bathroom and realize not only are the circles underneath your eyes reminiscent of the circles surrounding the eyes of the raccoon that you spotted outside of your apartment last night, but you are also in desperate need of a Brazilian—and that’s not your lust for a man from South America coming out.
You get on the phone with the nearest day spa, and while making an appointment for some waxage, you come to terms with the fact that you just spent $50 out of your college fund grooming what is, essentially, your pee hole. You then attempt to sign online (and I say attempt because the internet that you are pirating from your neighbors only works Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Friday afternoons) and it’s not quite noon yet.
“Do you go to Sigma Theta Chi Omega Delta where you know you'll be videotaped? Or do you go to Bobby’s where you know all of the guys have AIDS?”
You decide to scratch your innate itch to check and see if you have any new friend requests, throw on your weekend flannels, and head to the kitchen. As you grab your mug and go to throw your instant coffee into the microwave, you are met with a concoction similar to those your 6-year-old cousin made when grandma let her use every ingredient in the kitchen. Not only does this mean that your housemate got so wasted she violated the “don’t leave shit in the microwave because it makes everything smell like fish rule,” but there is probably a guy in her bed, so you can’t get your hair straightener out of her room until at least two.
You peer into the fridge and realize that the $100 Shop Rite trip you made last week has left you with one egg, a jar of pickles, and some mayonnaise. Great. Breakfast has been served. It's pickles and mayo for lunch and the clock strikes noon. INTERNET! You run upstairs to your room like the dude from “Scream” is chasing you and sign online. You have no friend requests but someone named Tree Frog has poked you. You have three emails from your mom, one from your English professor, and none from that cute guy you met on vacation.
You hop in the shower and are met with a blast of cold water. Most people wouldn’t think twice when this happens to them. They would get out and wait for it to warm up. You, on the other hand, deal with it because all it means is that one of the girls you live with didn’t pay the gas bill. You hear that cold water is better for your hair anyway.
You decide to head over to library to get some work done. After thirty minutes of searching for a parking spot, you decide that the piece of glass stuck in your foot from walking home barefoot the other night constitutes “handicapped,” and throw your car in a front row spot. You’ve now written the opening paragraph to a paper, played a few rounds of Snood (you forgot how good that game was as a procrastinator back in high school), and emailed the teacher of your 9:30 AM class claiming you had the Bird Flu. When you leave the library, you are welcomed with an orange envelope underneath your windshield wiper. There goes the $50 for your wax.
After a late afternoon nap and some of your roomie’s Easy Mac, it’s time to pick out your outfit. You want to seem available but not desperate, so you go with jeans and a low cut top. Now comes the hard part. Do you go to Sigma Theta Chi Omega Delta where you know you can get some ass but will probably be videotaped? Or do you go to Bobby’s where you know you can cut in line for the Beirut table, but all of the guys there either have girlfriends or AIDS?
You decide you could do without ending up on naked-college-coed-gangbangers.com, and head over to Bobby’s with your girls. You aren’t in his living room for five minutes when you make eyes with that guy who was trying to help you un-jam the printer in the library. Before you know it, you guys have taken over the Beirut table. Five games in you are pretty sure it’s his pretty eyes you will be staring into in the morning.
Before you and your lovaa head back to your place, you decide to run into the bathroom to do a last minute check up. No beer on your shirt—check. No pit stains—check. Good to go. You head back out of the bathroom and…NO!!!! He does NOT have his hand on the fake breast of that slut from your economics class. When did she even GET here? Is your walk of shame really going to consist of walking right from the Friday night party to your apartment? As you stumble home with mascara streaming down your cheeks, you make yourself calm down. At least you didn’t spend that $50 on twenty minutes of intense pain but rather twenty minutes in the library…and besides, there’s always tomorrow night.