General premise & rationale: I'm an awesome person.
Hypothesis: Everything I say is interesting and entertaining.
Proposed research methods: Blog documenting anything and everything related to being a twenty-something urbanite Ph.D student who likes science, dinosaurs, looking at pictures of cute animals, drinking too much and philsophizing.
Awkward that my ex-boyfriend meets many of deal-breakers listed at the end. Lesson learned friends. Mother-fuckin’ lesson learned.
Listen, I don’t have to tell you that you’re awesome. You know that already because you can go the the bathroom without your friends, you’ve read at least two epic poems, and you’re totally content making sweet love to a bowl of leftover mash’n’beer instead of some person you met at a club. You…
MISTAKE: JUST THIS SCENE LOL
When I was a kid, I was taught that you shouldn’t touch fire. I didn’t actually learn this lesson, though, until I put my sticky stupid baby hand on the stove. And it really fucking hurt, so I stopped doing it. This is the kind of mistakes you learn from…
A house party at an all-men’s college with the rugby team sounds more fun than it actually was. Maybe I was jaded after spending a good time, through fate or chance, a lot of time my senior year of college with multiple rugby teams. This one just wasn’t as crazy.
I blame the girls from Rival All-Women’s College to my own Prestigious All-Women’s College in the South. With their Vera Bradley bags and pearl necklaces (real, but I’m sure others sprang up—ha ha—over the night), these girls were looking for a mate to date and were all studying for their Mrs. degrees.
Of all the things I was promised at this party, they delivered on the alcohol. One handle of Jack Daniels per person. Fuck yeah!
Other things promised but not delivered: dance party, random make-out session, and non-ACDC music.
Things not promised but delivered: cake.
I guess the cake evens things out more?
Whatever. Half a bottle in and half a leftover birthday cake (belonging to the absent roommate of my friend’s boyfriend) later, I wanted to dance. Conveniently, there was a distinct lack of furnishings in this apartment besides a makeshift bar, some standard college-issue couches with suspicious stains, and an ottoman.
Various man-children of the rugby team and associates were scattered in the kitchen and at the edges of the living room drinking and holding girls in their laps. In a word: lame.
But it left the floor conveniently clear for my dancing antics. Full body, arms swinging hip thrusting.
Then, I bumped my head into the chandelier, located at my forehead level (I’m 5’2”).
Ha ha chandelier, I’ll use you instead of letting you make a fool of me!
I twisted my index finger into the golden loop at the bottom and started spinning in circles, clockwise then counter-clockwise, winding the chandelier cord.
Random man-child: “Whoa whoa whoa little lady, don’t break the chandelier.” Nasty stare from girl in lap.
“Fuck you, fuck you, I do whatever the fuck I want!”
Friend’s boyfriend and host of party: “Yeah, she does whatever the fuck she wants.”
The chandelier survived the night. Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.
