We all have moments that define us. For some, it’s landing a new job, getting married, or arriving at rehab. For me, it was the screaming of four words in May of 2011: “Frat Houses Don’t Close.”
The day started as typically as any other. I wake up in my sorority house at 11:00AM, hungover from the night before. It’s Finals Week and everyone I know is in the library. I personally find studying to be incredibly boring and equally unnecessary. As a History major, I’ve made it to the spring of my junior year of college solely by watching movies. Hollywood masterpieces like The Patriot and The Crucible are historically accurate enough to get you a ‘C,’ and that is good enough as far as I’m concerned.
I spend the afternoon in bed, catching up with my Housewives from Atlanta and make a mental note to learn all of the words to Tardy for the Party. I make an additional mental note to drop the phrase: “Dear God, please keep my wig on,” into any and all conversations.
By the time 5:00PM rolls around, I have had no human interaction and am starving. I put on the rush tee from my freshman year to remind any of the younger girls I might run into to bow the fuck down. I make it to the kitchen; pick at dry cereal, and text my Little.
“What are we doing tonight? Do not say studying. I will cut you.”
Because she is perfect, she responds with the only acceptable answer: “Drinking. Obvi.”
I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions in my lifetime, but she is not one of them. She is the bourbon to my ginger, the mary to my jane, the Lisa Vanderpump to my Brandi Glanville.
I have not left the confines of the house when she bumbles into my room at 8:00PM, four bottles of pinot in hand. I’m lying on my bed in a towel. I haven’t moved in a solid hour. We decide to stay in and drink given the fact that it’s finals week and all of our friends are fucking lame. Plus, she has the shittiest fake ID in existence. It’s unclear why she, as a white 19-year-old, thought that she could pass for a 32-year-old Armenian, but I lost my dog in that fight a long time ago.
The drinking commences. First bottle is done in less than twelve minutes. Second bottle. Third bottle. We then get the fantastic idea to start doing shots…by ourselves. Fourth bottle. We realize that our alcohol supply is now down to a laughable amount of gin and no chasers. If you’ve never done shots of straight gin, go lick a pine tree; it’s essentially the same thing. Faced with this pine sol conundrum, we decide to order more wine. (Yes, the liquor stores deliver. Did I mention my college town is the fucking tits?)
The wine arrived no less than eleven minutes later. The delivery boy is met with kisses and a killer tip (sorry, Dad). Fifth bottle. It’s at this point that we decide we are having way too much fun and looking way too good (I’m in my nicest pair of bleach-stained sweat pants) to be stuck in our stupid house. We call approximately nine people before someone answers.
Fifteen minutes and three shots of pine sol later, we’re inside a frat house house. We were very divisive figures in the house that year. Their house only fit twenty-five brothers, thirteen of them loved us, three of them were indifferent, and after a very unfortunate formal during which I made a few girls cry, nine of them hated us. We’re instructed to be quiet; a phrase that neither of us know the meaning of.
Within minutes of our arrival, my little has cornered one of the thirteen who actually like us. She rips into him. I can’t remember the exact reason due to the alcohol consumed and the time elapsed, but I think it’s because he told her it made him uncomfortable that she texted his mom everyday. Great, now we’re down to only twelve allies. If it came to a vote, we would not have the majority. Fuck me.
As my little is going to town on this poor guy, I take it upon myself to liven things up. This means that I walk into someone’s room, take the vodka out of their mini fridge, and start doing shots. Alone. With enough liquid courage to give zero fucks, I decide to walk into each of the brother’s rooms and make them take shots with me. Most of them are studying. Some of them are sleeping. None of them are happy.
Next thing I know, my ass is scooped up and I am fireman carried down the stairs, vodka bottle in hand. I become irrationally angry. It is 2:00AM on the Wednesday of finals week. Why won’t they drink with me? Fucking pussies. It’s at this point that I start screaming, not talking, not yelling, screaming. Anyone who was still sleeping is now awake due to the shrill shrieks exiting my mouth.
“FRAT HOUSES DON’T CLOSE.”
Does it make sense? Kind of. Is it funny? I sure as fuck think so.
The brothers are none too pleased with me. We’re losing allies left and right. It was like wartime casualty status. I’m met with angry yells and language that would make the ‘cunt punt’ girl blush. At some point during this, my little is rounded up. The two of us are physically dropped on the front stoop like the rejected babies left at fucking fire stations. The risk manager, a miserable little shit, who would later go on to make a “Risk List” for the sole purpose of putting me as #1, told us to fuck off and go home.
The next morning, I’m met with twelve “About last night…anything you want to say?” texts.
“Yes.” I respond. “You know where to find me. Apologize when you’re ready.”
I wasn’t allowed back at that house for the rest of the semester. Which was all of three days. Harsh punishment, boys. Rumor has it, they’re putting a plaque on their door with the saying “FRAT HOUSES DON’T CLOSE.” Just a friendly reminder, guys, you better fucking quote me. Intellectual property is a real thing, assholes. Besides, without my legacy, I’m just a washed up alcoholic, desperately trying to relive her glory days, and no one wants to be that.