How To: Get Your One-Night Stand Out Of Your Apartment


Email this to a friend

Nice Move

How To: Get Your One-Night Stand Out Of Your Apartment

The day starts like any other Saturday. Your eyes, while still closed, are a little sore from doing that last round that you knew you should have passed on. You can feel the sunlight poking through the blinds Ikea labeled as “blackout,” as they are currently barely even “dimming” your room. You yawn, brace yourself for the headache that’s about to wash over you when you actually open your eyes, and instantly snap your arm back from your wake up stretch when it brushes against something unfamiliar. That is most certainly NOT the pillow you paid way too much for on Etsy. That’s hair. There’s a person next to you. Fuck.

Yes, girl, You’ve found yourself on the receiving end (too soon?) of a collegiate rite of passage: the stranger wakeup call. Hey. Count your blessings. It could be worse. You could be waking up on some air mattress to an unfamiliar popcorn ceiling that is most certainly not yours and have to do the “pat-pat-pat” from shoulders to thighs to asses just how naked you are. It can ALWAYS be worse.

So you stretch, slowly and awkwardly to avoid waking this person up, and then proceed to do a mental question and answer.

Did you drive last night?
Did he drive last night?
Is this your ex?
Is this one of your ex’s friends?
Is he breathing?
Did you miss McDonalds breakfast time?

No time to dillydally, sister. It’s time to find your bra and your backbone and get that dude out of your space so you can go back to bed or whatever Netflix marathon you’re currently in the middle of. You already let him stay the night; that was very nice (or just very drunk) of you.

While every one night stand is different it is going to take a different strategy to get each one out and on his merry way. I’ve complied a list of some of the techniques I have used in my time on this earth when I’ve been out and about to assist in getting them out and about of your apartment. What kind of girl would I be if I didn’t spread the wealth? Hey, I listened when Taylor threw shade at Tina and Amy: I’m all about women helping other women.

The Passive Aggressive Housemaid.
You get up, maybe toss out and exasperated sigh and do a fake, overly stressed out take-in of the mess that is your room. You dramatically put your hair in a ponytail and start aggressively putting clothes into a hamper, maybe wipe a non-existent dust trail off of your dresser. You head to the kitchen and start doing dishes making as much effort to clank the Target Threshold plates together as much as possible in order to wake that dude up.

He eventually rouses, sleepily makes his way to wherever you are (SCORE. It’s NOT your ex – mental high five!) and awkwardly says:

“Do you need some help?”

That’s your cue to just word vomit about how busy you are today because so-and-so is coming over to watch movies and you’ve been procrastinating on all of the errands you should have done two days ago. While you’re rambling on about the state of your bathroom he is already shimmying back into his jeans and calling an Uber to get away from your neurotic ass. After you’ve exchanged numbers, purely out of obligation, he’ll be gone and you can eat cold noodles in your sweats and forget all about that cleaning you actually should have gotten done.

The Bullshit Bruncher.
Carefully, so as not to wake the dude who is snoring and drooling (how dare he) on your “Little Spoon” pillow case, you text Caroline “Need to pretend we have plans. Call me in 10. Will explain later. *sick face emoji* *heart emoji*” Caroline, the ride-or-die chick she is, simply responds with the thumbs up and no questions because she knows you’d do the same for her. You make a mental note that you owe her a bloody mary the next time you two get real brunch.

You then spring out of bed in a panic making as much of a scene as you can. You start ripping through your clothes, getting dressed into something that around a pitcher of mimosas and a $16 omelette would be deemed as acceptable. When he starts to ask what’s up you get really apologetic but lose none of your frenzy as you claim:

“I totally forgot that I had brunch plans! I’d bail but we made a reservation and…oh my god I just feel so bad!”

While you start putting makeup on just for show he starts stammering about how he doesn’t know where his car is. You pretend not to hear him while running water to make yourself sound more busy than you actually are. Then, like clockwork, Caroline calls.

“I’m so sorry! I know! I’m on my way, I’m totally on my way. Yes, I know I always do this. I’m SORRY.”

You make another mental note about how much you owe Caroline and grab your keys while herding this dude out of your room even though his shirt is barely on. You ask if he’s got everything, promise to Facebook him, and get in your car while waving goodbye. You drive to Starbucks, get yourself an Americano, two Splendas (who cares about fake sugar anyway. You do Pilates so it’s fine.), and drive home to your now empty bed.

The John Hamm.
Great. Another dude who couldn’t take the hint last night that you wanted to starfish in your bed alone and ended up trying to cuddle. How adorable. You start messing around on your phone, not making any effort to turn the volume down when Instagram videos of everyone who’s festival-ing start playing, and ignore him when he eventually stirs.

He kind of smiles at you before checking his own phone, then leans over to kiss your neck. No thank you, you’re done with this game. So with no trail of nonsense you put down your phone and say:

“I really need you to go but I don’t know how to say so without sounding like a dick.”

He kind of looks like you slapped him across the face but ultimately stutters about how he’s helping his brother with his car anyway. He asks for your number and you hand it over even though you both know the only way he’s getting a text back is if you’re under the influence of two for one wells or a fourth pitcher on trivia night. He sort of gives a goodbye when you show him the door and you don’t worry about the final sting when you turn the lock instantly behind him.

Sure. His ego might be a little bruised. But that’s not really your problem. You have cold pizza and the rest of Orange is the New Black calling your name. And he’ll get over it.

The closest Kendra ever went to going Greek was always hitting up Pita Pit on her way home from the bars. But she thanks the sisterhood of DG for always letting her crash taco night and helping her find her way out of that frat party where a guy got stabbed with a samurai sword. Contact her at for sex toy suggestions and general sass.

More From Kendra Syrdal »


You must be logged in to comment. Log in or create an account.

Click to Read Comments (3)