When I came to college to begin my freshman year, I had no idea what I was in for. Obviously I’m cool as fuck, so I assumed I’d automatically have a BA friend group and feel comfortable living with a random chick I’d never really met at all. I thought I would be able to slide right into the social scene and be the life of the party. I would be the shit.
So, there are a couple issues with this assumption.
1. I am all kinds of awkward. One time I punched a guy in the face… mid-makeout. Naturally, in my head, it made sense to then continue the punches to make the first jab seem deliberate.
2. I live in a loser dorm, so I can’t just open my door and find the party right there in my hallway. If I really wanted to find the party, I’d have to put on my parka and walk 15 minutes to reach the social dorms. Then even after the brutal walk, I’d still have to find someone with a key to the building AND a key to the elevator. This then leads to me wandering around aimlessly through unfamiliar hallways that smell like puke.
3. I don’t know how to dress myself. I went to a private school and wore a uniform for 10 years. Which is exactly what led me to what I did next in this story.
Because I do not know how to dress myself, I thought it would be cool to buy some sassy pants before heading to college. I drove my sassy self over to the mall two days before I left, and I dropped a considerable amount of cash on hot pink jeans.
I wore those pants every night I went out for the first two weeks of school. And, if not for one fateful night, I would probably be wearing those pants right now, too.
As I mentioned, I assumed that college would be the best thing ever right off the bat. This was a very wrong assumption. I was miserable, and the thought of being social made me want to crawl into a hole and eat a large cheesecake all by myself. But for some stupid ass reason, I finally decided to push myself and went out with this girl Sparkle who I’d met the week before.
I wore my hot pink pants, duh. Those pants gave me confidence.
Sparkle had a handle of Svedka in her dorm room (and if her name didn’t give it away, she lives in one of the cool dorms), so we started taking shots around 10 pm. Five, six, seven, eight shots in I started to feel really good. I started to ask myself why I was ever sad about my situation at school in the first place. “Life is great!” I thought as I unzipped my hot pink pants to break the seal.
Sparkle and I went out without an address, wandering about aimlessly for a good two hours. We stopped in to some houses, drunkenly decided that we were too cool for the parties there, and stumbled back onto the street hand in hand. The only thing that was keeping me from laying down in the bushes to sleep and give up for the night was the fact that I could show off my pants to everyone walking by.
For some reason unbeknownst to my drunk self, Sparkle and I decided we would head back to my dorm for a girl’s night. I guess the night wasn’t going exactly as we anticipated. I splayed out on my carpet when we got back and considered taking off my pants to put on something more comfortable, but decided against it. I was too obsessed with the pants to let them leave me yet.
Eight more shots later, Sparkle looks at me and goes, “Harry wants to hook up with me, and he lives in your dorm, so I’m going to go hook up with him and then come back here to sleep!”
Okay, first off, who is Harry? Is that why we came back to my dorm and not hers? So she could leave me to make sweet love to Harry? How offensive.
Second off, ugh.
I hate myself for this. I told her she could hook up with Harry in my dorm room, and I would just wait out in the hallway. I kicked my drunk self out of my own dorm room. How rude.
Fast forward 15 minutes, when I’m dragging my body down the hallway of my dorm floor because my bodily functions are starting to fail me. It’s getting too difficult to hold my head up, and it’s definitely too difficult to walk. I progressively get drunker and drunker as I imagine Sparkle mounting Harry on my futon. A single tear falls from the corner of my eye and drops onto my hot pink pants.
Then, the spins. Not the fucking spins. I start to feel the vomit creep up my throat, and I run to the bathroom as fast as my body can take me. I kneel down on the disgusting bathroom floor in front of the porcelain god and feel so sorry for my pink pants because they are getting dirty, that I focus TOO much on them. My focus gets so intense that I somehow manage to yak all over my pants, missing the bowl completely. FUCK.
The thought of vomiting on my prized possession made me want to vomit more (and the fact that I’m drunk off my ass), so I vomit for another good twenty minutes and then decide to rest a little in the bathroom stall.
I literally splay myself out on the floor, my legs completely out of the stall, and my head is resting on the ground next to a little puddle of vomit. And then, my world crashes down around me as I hear the door creak open and a girl’s voice go “RA coming in!”
I don’t even attempt to pretend I’m not smashed out of my mind as the RA comes across my hot pink pants sticking out of the stall.
“I am so sorry. I am so drunk.” I say.
“Thanks for your honesty.” the RA says as she writes my name down and strips me of any dignity I had left.
I walk of shamed the 30 feet to my room, where Sparkle sat happily eating a pizza. I wipe a tear from my face, remember that my dignity had been stripped, and rip off my hot pink pants for the very. last. time. I swear to myself that never again will I wear those vomit covered hot pink pants because they symbolize the drunken mess that is my second weekend of college life.
Now, whenever I contemplate what to wear out for the night, my mind flits to my hot pink pants and I shudder in utter horror. But then, I kind of shrug my shoulders and whisper “no ragrats” as I pull on a pair of leggings.