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The first roommate ever assigned to me had a liver transplant as an infant and “couldn’t really drink a lot”. She was also a jazz guitar major who didn’t have Facebook. Needless to say, I parted ways with Jazzy as soon as a possible (and by that I mean: a girl on our floor had a mental breakdown because she didn’t get into Delta Gamma and dropped out of school thus allowing the whole floor to rearrange) and was rooming with Hurricane by October.

By the time finals week rolled around in December, I had developed what I still maintain was a pretty respectable alcohol tolerance.  We didn’t get fake ids until toward the end of the semester however, so that tolerance had never really been tested in a public forum. My drinking experiences at the time were limited to frat parties (which included warm beer and inadequate sexual partners), and dorm drinking, (which included Everclear and warm Poland Springs vodka).

At any rate, Hurricane and I had finally gotten our fake ids and had three open study days before our first final so, obviously, we were going out on the town. We went out to the local college dive bar and got fucking blasted. This place only served pitchers of beer, and between the two of us, we probably went through about eleven pitchers that night. Somehow, we managed to make it back to the dorms and head upstairs.

We stumbled back to our dorm, and Hurricane promptly bailed to go sleep in her boyfriend’s room, which was three floors above us. He had a final the next morning, which is why he hadn’t come out with us that night. The last time Hurricane saw me, she claims, I was tucked into bed watching tivoed Friends reruns.

Cut to: the next morning at noon.

Hurricane came in with a slice of pizza for me, like the angel sent from heaven she is. She had a shit-eating grin on her face, so I assumed she and boyfriend had done something raunchy and sexual after his final. Silently, Hurricane sat down on the bed and laid out my pizza for me tenderly, like Mary Poppins would for Helen Keller.

“What are you doing you fucking weirdo. Stop touching my food.” I whined.

“Oh. Okay.” She was still grinning like a fucking idiot. Arms crossed, just grinning and staring at me.

“ What the fuck could you possibly be looking at?”

“Well, missy. Do you want to explain what you did last night?”

I stared at her blankly. I had no fucking idea what she was talking about.

“Why don’t you fill me in, Sherlock.” I said.

“Well, first of all, boyfriend thanks you for having the RA blast him awake at four o’clock in the fucking morning the night before his orgo final. Much appreciated. He passed by the way, but that’s not the point.

"Are you aware that you “slept walked” aka “drunkenly stumbled like a zombie” into Jazzy’s, aka your old room last night. Just waltzed right in the fucking door?”

“Shut up.” my jaw was hanging opened.

“Oh, that’s not the best part!

“After you walked in unannounced like the god damn Queen of Sheeba into your old – note: not your current – your former dorm room at four o’clock in the morning, you pulled down your fucking pants and just popped a squat. Right there on the floor.”

At this point, I was mid heart attack. I could in no way verbalize anything going through my head.

“Oh, THAT’S NOT THE BEST PART.”

“After you peed all over your old dorm room, you opened your old underwear drawer and began rifling through all of what I’m sure you thought were YOUR panties. These were, in fact, panties belonging to Nice, the new inhabitant of your old underwear drawer.

“At this point, both Nice and Jazzy woke up, and inquired as to what the fuck you could possibly be doing. When Nice said “Hey, please stop rifling through my panties” you replied “stop being such a fucking perv.” You actually called her a perv. Luckily, you found no panties that suited you so you just stole a pair of her shorts. Which, by the way, she doesn’t want back.

“And you didn’t stop there. Once you had on the shorts, you walked over to Nice and fucking KICKED HER OUT OF HER OWN BED. Literally. She got out of bed, you crawled in and passed out. That is apparently when Nice went running to the RA who came in to try and wake you up. You chose to scream obscenities at her and adamantly argue that you were in your own bed. You were wrong.

“That’s when the RA came and got boyfriend and I. He came down and tried to reason with you. You told him not to trust his cell phone. He gave up and physically dragged you out of bed and carried you back to our room.”

Unable to grasp the concept of anything Hurricane was telling me, I continued to chew my pizza casually. This was unbelievable. I mean, I knew I had been drunk, but seriously, this was beyond any mess I had ever seen on The Hills. This was Ruthie and Tek in Hawaii fucked up.

“How much trouble am I in?” I finally asked. To which Hurricane burst out laughing.

“You have to get Nice’s sheets dry cleaned and you got written up – you have to go talk to Pug Face Boner."

“How mad are Jazzy and Nice?”

“You’re never speaking to either of them again. They will tell this story the rest of their lives.”

And now, I’ve told it for them.


Occurred: sometime between 2005-2009

*Editor’s note: I am really truly sorry to Nice and Jazzy. To this day, I still don’t know whether I was sleepwalking, roofied, or just fucking drunk. What I did was irreprehensible and disgusting, and if someone ever did it to me, I would not have handled it as graciously as either of you did.

*Editor’s note addendum: to the Pug Face Boner who’s life mission was to make mine and Hurricane’s miserable during second semester: thank you for making campus life so fucking awful that my parents shelled out rent off campus beginning sophomore year. Much obliged, my liege.   


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