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I lead a rock-and-roll lifestyle

Look, I know I’ve been getting behind on my posts here, but it’s not my fault. I like to write these little ditties late at night, but I can only do so sober, and lately I’ve been a nexus of drunken social interaction, partying quite hardy every night since finals ended. You’ve already heard about my party on Tuesday night, and I’ve attended another every night since then.

Wednesday was the going-away party for Gioia’s roommate Marissa. Parties at Gioia’s are always intense exercises in sexual frustration; she lives with achingly beautiful girls that are completely unattainable, and the parties usually comprise them and their boyfriends and hangers-on. I showed up early this time, before any guys had arrived, which made things immeasurably better. I got to be the center of attention for six gorgeous girls for a full hour or so while we played Kings and made fun of Gioia. She was already far past her limit (two drinks) when I got there. For Gioia, drinking alcohol is the same as dialing up the volume one shot at a time. She asked me (and many other party-goers) if I thought her New Boy Mark was cute a great many times, to which I always replied that he was. This made her very happy. Things could have gone much worse; the last time we had that conversation, regarding the Old Boy, Fred, I ended up kissing her and him in the same evening. Sadly, Fred is much more pucker-worthy than Gioia. She didn’t so much kiss me as attack me with her face, like a hen pecking up a delicious morsel of grain.

Last night Jared and Dash had a kegger at Narnia, to which I brought Chris, Alison, Michele, Dillon, and Christina. It was the first time I’d brought my CS friends to hang out with my non-CS friends, and I didn’t know what to expect. Things went swimmingly, probably because they’re the two most normal of my CS friends; now I can slowly start phasing in the lurkers from Sieg.

I’m not sure where this whole “keg stand” thing came from. Shots are faster if you’re just looking to get drunk, and chugging from a cup or bottle has to be more efficient if you’re going the beer route. What, you’re still not drunk enough yet? I guess we’d better hang you upside down directly over gallons of foamy lager while you struggle to drink fast enough to avoid choking. There’s glory in this, surely. If you’re feeling doubtful when the other partiers are egging you on, just remember: anyone can stand up to their peers like they’ve been indoctrinated to do since the first grade, but it takes real man to cave under the pressure. I was a real man last night, for a whopping count of 21. Then Dominic came in and mopped the floor with me, pausing at 48 to take one hand off the keg in order to pump. I’m disqualifying him though, on the grounds that he’s so Irish it hurts to look at him.

Other highlights include Chris and I getting hustled at beer pong while Michele giggled, rocking out to Jared and Dash in their tiny music room (absolutely dripping with body heat), and the fake Swede, Linda.

Linda just walked up to Chris and I and started talking, and we couldn’t understand a word she was saying. We asked her to repeat herself. “Are you making fun of my accent?” she asked. “Accent? I just thought you were drunk,” I told her. “No, no. Look at me: blonde hair, blue eyes. I’m from Sweden.” She seemed very proud of the fact. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “I always kind of thought Swedish girls were a cruel hoax perpetrated by Hollywood.” Then Chris interjected to ask her name. “You should have asked earlier. Too bad for you.” And she left, leaving us wondering what the hell had just transpired. Chris and I talked to her several more times that night, and her accent kept changing to things that sounded alternately Russian, German, French, and good old-fashioned sorority girl. We weren’t the only confused victims; everyone was talking about this girl, rumors flying left and right. From Jared: “She’s from Sweden, she speaks seven languages, she has a 4.0, and she’s a virgin.” (Me: “None of those things are true.”) From Berkowitz: “The last time she was here, she offered to make us ‘blueberry muffins’. So she takes an Eggo waffle out of the freezer, puts it in the microwave, sets it for twenty minutes, and leaves.” From the CHID major on the porch: “Dude, she’s just some slut with bleached hair. She’s all over that loud guy by the keg.” (Me: “Man, I hate that guy!”) From Christina: “Why do you care? Her pants are awful.”

As far as I could tell, no one really knew her story, and every time I tried to get it out of her she threw me for a loop. “You’re not Swedish at all, are you,” I asked after cornering her in the living room. “Can I tell you something?” she asked. “Um, yeah,” I stammered, thinking the truth was within my grasp. “Lots of guys are hitting on me tonight, and I don’t like it,” she said with a drunkenly wounded expression. “Oh, well I – uh. Ok.” I beat a hasty retreat and sat down, feeling like an ass. I wasn’t even hitting on her!

Posted in Musings.

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