Monday, March 9, 2009

damn you andre

Remember Northeastern and the unfortunate Spanx incident? Weirdly enough, he wanted to see me again after that and we actually hung out several times. One Friday night, we made plans to hang out with my roommate and her British friend who was staying with us for the week. I thought it would be a brilliant idea to start drinking at around 6:00 PM, because, when is it not? By the time we left for the bar at around 10:00 (at least I think it was around that time?) I'd had about six beers, and half a bottle of champagne. Apparently four years in college did not adequately teach me that drinking is a marathon - and not a sprint.

I wish I could tell you all about my night out in Harvard Square. How I had an amazing time with my friends and the guy I was sort of dating. How we danced and were being cozy at the bar. That all could have happened if I hadn't been so drunk that even the most basic of things, like walking, became impossible. I remember stumbling into the bar, drinking some vodka and Red Bull and dancing like Elaine in Seinfeld. As always, I was the picture of class and grace. Well, that is if class and grace is characterized as drinking way too much strawberry flavored Andre and grabbing drinks out of my friend's hands.

I regain consciousness the next morning and feel as though someone has used my skull and eye sockets as a pin-cushion. This is not good. Northeastern wakes up and he just sort of looks at me and says "So... how ya feeling?" All I can muster is a groan. I look down and realize I am wearing pajamas and exclaim "Oh hey, I'm wearing clothing! Guess we didn't have sex last night?"

He looks me dead in the face and says "Nope, but God did you try."

Sex fail. Again.


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