6:00 a.m. I spring out of bed and bee-line to the baffroom to get sexy. The apartment is pitch black, but I know Kehly is up and about in her room. 6:10 a.m. I text her. “Crank some tunes, bitch.” Moments later, black people music is thumping through the building, forcing Amy up and out of bed also. 7:15, Cole and Josh arrive, and shots start pouring. Somewhere shortly after that, I apparently become incoherently drunk, because I don’t remember jack shit. However, I have a vague memory that really made the entire morning:
We peer out the window onto the street where two chicks in an Eclipse are attempting to parallel park between a Jeep Grand Cherokee and what appears to be a Saturn. This bitch hits the Jeep’s bumper at least three times, and I push the window open and yell down, “THAT’S MY JEEEEP!! YOU’RE HITTING MY JEEP! YOU COME UP HERE AND PAY ME TEN DOLLARS FOR THE DAMAGE!!” They exit their car and dash away as fast as possible. We laugh and I presume continue drinking, heading to Melrose soon afterward.
Once I reach the tailgate, I begin my search for adults with food. I spot several elderly folk staked outside the trunk of their SUV enjoying quiche and guacamole dip. I am intrigued. When I made my approach, however, I realized that I wouldn’t be getting this grub for free. This woman was going to make me work for it; “work” meaning she wanted me to tell her in full detail what it was I wanted to do with my college career and actual career after I graduate.
I was hammered at this point. Just tanked. I couldn’t have told a four year old how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at that point, let alone go into autobiography mode and explain my major and prospective career as a young adult. I rambled on about journalism and communications, doing the best I could without falling over, but the fiesty woman, who I believe was hovering somewhere between 55 and 60 years of age, kept prodding into my life.
This wasn’t a passive, I-bake-cookies-for-my-grandchildren and watch-the-Christian-television-channel-during-the-day-before-Bingo-at-5 type of grandma, either. This was one of those grandmas who power walks in the mall with weights on her ankles, speeds on the interstate, and bitches at people in grocery lines. Knowing what I wanted to do for a living wasn’t enough, and she continued to inquire about campus, and my opinion on the comparison of Iowa’s campus to Iowa State’s–just tons of shit I did not want to and could not think about. The only two things that were on my mind were 1) I want your guacamole, and 2) I’m wasted.
After heckling me for a good twenty minutes, she finally offered me a plate of quiche (which was delicious from what I remember) and a hefty scoop of guacamole dip with Tostitos. I was pleased, but not so happy about having to work so hard for it. I return to the party and consume more beer.
A while later, I see a gentleman parading around with a football shaped sugar cookie with bright yellow frosting. Naturally, I wanted one, and he told me where he got it. I march across the parking lot to another tailgate and spot the basket full of baked goods, being heavily guarded by someone’s mother. I express that I want one, and she says, “Did that boy tell you where he got these? He wasn’t supposed to tell! Oh well, here you go.” She hands me the goods and I leave, satisfied.
The fun didn’t stop here, though. About fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting happily with my beer on a plastic chair outside the house when the same cookie woman delivers a plate full of shishkabobs and cookies to me, saying that she is leaving and I could have them. Yessss. People like me, and I like that.
Eventually the game starts, so Kehly and I head home. I pass out for about an hour before being rudely awakened by Marcus, Kehly, and Amy. I get up and realize I am feeling anything but ship shape. I have a migraine strong enough to kill a man, and my internal organs are more than upset. I sit in misery on the couch while Kehly gets drunker than any human being that has ever lived to tell about it, and after a bit we head to the guys’ house.
I am ill. I am just ill at this point. The little drummer boy is playing a fucking face-melting solo on the kick-drum in my cerebellum, and I am miserable. I take some drugs. They don’t help. Hours pass, and my condition does not improve. Everyone else has been drinking for quite a while, and I was 100% sober and 100% under the weather. However, in situations like these, you just have to “man the fuck up.” I sat down at the table with my vodka, Sunkist, and shot glass, and figured, “Shit, the worst that could happen is I’ll puke. A lot.” And then I drank. A lot. My night quickly improved.
I head over to the keg at Jefferson and Lucas, harass people for a while, play with a puppy, take some unattractive pictures. I venture downstairs to mingle with the commonfolk. Now, remember Ms. Diva from the library whose glass-shattering music was blaring from her MP3 to my immediate left the other day? You know, totally obliterating my concentration while attempting to do homework–that girl. Refer to previous note. WELL,
I mosey over to the bar to chat with Chuck. When I look up, I am horrified to see the bitch from the computer lab with the loud music directly in front of me. Again, under the influence of alcohol, I become very rowdy and very forward. I stare her straight in the eye and demand, “Were you at the IMU two days ago?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“Were you in the computer lab?” I inquire.
“Yeah, I was!” She replies jubilantly, as if I were about to announce that she had won a prize for being there.
“I knew it. You were listening to your fuckin’ headphones so loud I couldn’t concentrate on my fucking paper. You need to turn that shit down.”
I said this in the meanest, most straight-forward way possible with a crazy look in my eye. Her jaw dropped, and she looked at me horribly offended. I then pivoted to my right, and walked away, only to join my group of friends and point her out to everyone. From that point forward, it was like Headphones was everywhere I went. I maintained my position as angry victim as she cowered in the corner of every room we shared. It was funny. I’m a bitch.
Cole, Josh, Lee, annoying Alex and I go on a mission to get Taco Bell around 1:00 a.m. After indulging in our cheap Mexican cuisine, we go our separate ways, except Cole comes with me because we plan to have a sleep over. Halfway home, Cole whines to me that he HAS to pee, and it’s not an option to wait til we get home. I agree that we will stop at L&M so he could use the restroom. Upon our arrival, I announce that we should get some food while we we’re there.
We raid the freezers. Cole picks out a box of Pizza Rolls, and I get a 4-pack of breakfast Hot Pockets. I glance at the counter which is surrounded by other drunks getting cigarettes, beer, and other treats, and say to Cole, “I bet we could just jack this shit,” to which Cole replied, “Yup. Let’s do it. Just stick it under your jacket.” He bolts out the door. “But I’m not wearing a jacket!” I cry out. Too late. I shove my very obvious box up my form-fitting t-shirt and exit the gas station. We are feeling very cool and very victorious, and we hot-foot it home.
Outgoing text messages of the day/evening:
“Sweet. See wyou later”
“Haga I’m so tired tailgating should bean olympic eventk”
“My tummy is full of drink”
“my amigo cole and i just robbed a convenience store. We’re feeli.ng badass. Aka drunk”
I don’t think we should ignore the drunken Facebook wall posts, either. Here’s a good one:
Alright, I was going to corrent the above, but it was too good of a “typo” to erase. Plus I was too drunk to find the backspace bar, 1:51 p.nm.
See you later.
Ha. Good times, great oldies. More to come.
“‘Ey, look, another cupcake. Iz like a muffin, wit frosting.”