About Last Night 

The 30something girlfriend of the guy in the wedding

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Friday, May 11

4 p.m.

Arrive at huge, gorgeous vacation house in the country where we'll be staying for the weekend – just me, my boyfriend and two other groomsmen tonight. Tomorrow, the fourth groomsman will arrive with his girlfriend, but for tonight, it's just me and the guys.

6 p.m.

Cigars, farting, jam bands playing on the iPod. Novelty wearing off.

Saturday, May 12

11:15 a.m.

Third groomsman and his girl arrive. She's young, but she's cute and she seems cool. We talk about our boyfriends and shoes, I borrow her hair dryer, she likes my dress. So glad we hit it off!

6 p.m.

At the wedding, the boys have wedding duties to tend to. New Friend and I hit the bar. By the time I finish my Tom Collins, she's going back for a third drink. The reception doesn't start for another hour.

9 p.m.

Dinner is done and cake has been cut, DJ is killing it. Everyone's dancing. I see New Friend alternating trips to the bar with freaking different guys on the dance floor. Where is her boyfriend? Where did she get a feather boa? Is that one of the other groomsman's ties? I think her dress is falling off. But she's still standing up. She Dougies over to me, hugs me and says she can't wait to PARTY later. Wait … she hasn't started partying yet?

10:45 p.m.

Wedding is over in 15 minutes. New Friend hits the bar for another round before last call, walks away with two. Looks bleary-eyed. Talks to me about some girl saying something to her boyfriend. She doesn't seem very happy anymore, and she's kind of freaking me out. I am glad to be distracted by somebody's grandma who asks me a question I can't even hear.

11:38 p.m.

Somehow, everybody arrives safely back at the house. Everyone's a little drunk and happy. It was a good night, all around … except, wait, here comes New Friend flying in the front door in a tornado of ragged feathers and tears and cheap-rum breath! She flings herself into a bedroom, locks door, cries. Her boyfriend, who I feel kind of bad for, looks sad. “Can you go see if she's OK?” he asks me. Ugh.

He goes outside to have a cigar with the boys. I go try to talk New Friend, who is quickly becoming Girl I Hope I Never Have to See Again, off a ledge.

11:40 p.m.

I sit on the side of the bed and listen to New Friend, who has buried herself in pillows and blankets and sheets, as she sobs about how horrible her boyfriend is. “I HATE him! He's an asshole! I'm breaking up with him. Tonight! That whore!”

Midnight

I've given up consoling New Friend, who is now nursing yet another drink – this time a Jack and Coke – and simmering. She's telling anyone who will listen about how a girl at the wedding tried to fuck her boyfriend, how that girl is a cheap whore and her boyfriend, who is still outside having a cigar with the other men in the wedding party, is a cheating liar who she's never talking to again. Can anyone give her a ride home in the morning?

12:20 a.m.

The bridesmaids arrive at the house. New Friend Who I Never Want to See Again flies into a spitting rage, retreats back to her room, slams door. The bridesmaid who her boyfriend had to walk down the aisle with was, according to her, the one macking on her man. Only, that girl has a boyfriend with her. He's totally cute. She's totally perplexed by the whole situation. Wailing can be heard from the bedroom.

1 a.m.

The boys come back inside. NFWINWSA, who I thought was asleep, storms into the room, slaps her boyfriend in the face, tells him she hates him. They start making out in front of everyone. They retreat to bedroom, mumbling “I love you toos” at one another, shut door.

1:02 a.m.

I make a mental note to remember to appreciate hanging out with a bunch of low-key dudes sitting around, smoking cigars, telling stupid jokes, listening to jam bands. Jam bands aren't so bad, I think to myself. Right?

What did you do last night? Send us a diary detailing your drunken escapades, and we'll print the best ones in an upcoming issue of OW. Send your story, along with your name, age, phone number and email address to aboutlastnight@orlandoweekly.com. We won't print your name or contact info, but we do need it to contact you to make sure you're a real person and can verify your story.

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