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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.
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