The 19-year-old poli-sci major: active sorority member,
May 8, 2012
Wake up from a five-hour-long nap. Realize it's only 7. Fuck it, back to bed.
Wake up to a call from B. She's on her way over. Trip over a pair of 6-inch-heels while I try to find the light switch. There's beer cans and wine bottles everywhere. Good thing the roommate moved out today or else she'd have a conniption. Text from B: She's downstairs.
Put on my “Fuck Bitches Get $$” pregame playlist. Start my six-pack of Yuengling while I pick an outfit. Realize that I don't have enough miniskirts or see-through tops in my closet.
Five Yuenglings in, and I've changed my outfit twice. Teasing my hair to the beat of “6 Foot 7 Foot,” realizing I'm a little buzzed.
B.'s friend J. comes over while I'm curling her hair. He's a lightweight and keeps trying to talk. His voice makes me want to stick a screwdriver into my ear, so I turn up the music until he stops talking. I settle on a fuchsia satin top and a black lace miniskirt. Scandalous enough, I guess.
May 9, 2012
Shit, it's midnight. Bars close in two hours. We do shots of some foul-tasting sweet-tea vodka and head down to B.'s SUV, even though the bar is only four blocks away from my dorm. She's driving.
Must have casually blacked for a minute because we're out front of the bar already. Everyone's there, including the ex's new girlfriend. I take a second to give her the death stare, and then quickly move to the bar. Flash the fake ID (I'm totally 25 …), order a Chuck Norris shot and a Heineken, then head outside to the patio for a cigarette.
Run into a friend, L., an upcoming senior. We're both drunk and bored, so we decide to leave and do “hoodrat things.” I yell to B. and J. that I'll catch up with them later. We start walking back to campus. Where the hell is my phone? Black out.
Un-black out to find I'm carrying one of the school's baseball game signs and looking into the flashlight of a public safety officer. Oh shit. He wants us to put it back where we found it, but I can't remember where that was, so I just set it down and slowly walk away. L. follows me. She's holding my clutch. He's still yelling for us to put it back, so I move it about 20 feet away. More yelling. Not good. He's coming toward us. We drop the sign and start running like hell. Now he's following us in a golf cart. Running sucks when you're drunk – so glad I didn't wear heels. We lose him and stop running near the university president's house. Then we hear sirens.
Evade police on foot. L. and I decide to part ways. She heads back to her apartment and I keep running toward downtown. Find a bush outside an insurance office that looks like a good hiding spot. I think my bar tab is still open. Cop cars keep passing. Start thinking about what my mug shot would look like. They let you fix your hair for those, right?
Realize that my phone was in my clutch the whole time. Call B. in a panic. She and J. are still at the bar; she wants me to meet them there.
Sprint to the bar in hopes that I don't look suspicious, and immediately realize that my strapless bra is around my waist. Whoops … I totally own it. Walk inside like nothing happened and close my bar tab. Find J. and B., who are both plastered. We walk back to the car and I hop in the driver's seat. They've decided that they want to steal a sign too, so we circle campus a couple of times. There are cops everywhere.
We decide on a sign outside the art museum. Before I can even stop the car, they're out the doors dragging the sign to the trunk. There's a car coming toward us, so I peel out to cross the street. Almost run over a cat or a raccoon or something.
Stop at B.'s boyfriend's house to stash the sign. Why is M. in the car? She must have left the bar with us. Shit, did I black out while I was driving?
Victory picture with the sign.
Smoke with B. and her boyfriend. Black out.
Wake up in my dorm room in a towel. I open one eye to see my phone, keys and clutch on my desk. Successful night. Back to sleep.
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 [email protected]landoweekly.com. We won't print your name or contact info, but we do need to contact you to make sure you're a real person and can verify your story.