As sorority girls, we simply cannot go a weekend without getting hammered (it’s not alcoholism until after we graduate, right?) and eventually, if worthy enough, we earn a signature nickname or trademark story from the memories, or lack of, on these nights. In every chapter, there’s a blackie-Jackie — the hot mess who wakes up confused almost every morning after going out. There’s the girl who spends her entire night in tears (we usually avoid this girl) and then there’s the girl who will try to make out, lick, or dry hump literally everything in her sight. I admit, pieces of all of these girls make up my drunken alter ego, but after years of hard work, I’ve finally earned a one-of-a-kind label of my own: The Magician.
Can I put a spell on a boy at a bar to make him completely forget the fact that I made out with his brother five minutes earlier? Easily. Can I mix up a magical potion (or a combination of Advil, Gatorade, and carbs) to instantly cure my hangover? Absolutely. But this one-of-kind nickname came from something completely different.
It was like any other normal night. Music was blasting throughout Greek row, drunk girls were stumbling from fraternity to fraternity, and I was on the rise. Fresh out of midterm week, my eyes were set on finding any and all forms of alcohol. Mixed drinks, shots, margaritas, I was so desperate that I would even allow myself to bloat for a beer.
As most girls casually got tipsy off of wine at the pregame, I wandered towards the arrangement of vodka on the table and discreetly made myself a couple of very strong mixed drinks, which I admit now were essentially straight alcohol with a splash of soda. As the buzz started to hit me, I spent the rest of the pregame juggling drunk-texting my booty call, trying to make out with all my sisters, and begging my friends to cab with me to a nearby bar. Fed up with what they called unacceptably early drunkenness (who asked them), they downed their drinks and dragged me down the stairs to head out. That’s pretty much the last vivid memory I have from the night.
From what I remember and what I’ve been told, nothing too out-of-the-ordinary happened at the bar that night. I just did what I normally do: I chased my ex-boyfriend around and begged him to love me again. I glared at his new girlfriend and swore at her from across the room. I ran into the bathroom after the new girlfriend lunged angrily towards me and peed in the trash can there. And I cabbed home with my sisters back to the house. I remember ranting about my yeast infection as my friends carried me inside and left me to pass out on the couch. And I thought I fell asleep after that.
The next morning, I woke up underneath a sea of warm white blankets on a bed. Remembering my friends dropped me off on the couch last night, I jolted up immediately and scanned the foreign room around me. I saw pictures of girls and friend groups I didn’t recognize and Greek letters that were not mine. I jumped off her bed and looked out the window only to realize I was inside our rival sorority’s house. As if this situation wasn’t bizarre enough, I felt the cool breeze hit my thighs and discovered my lack of pants. I began to panic. Who on earth was this chick and how did I get inside this house last night? And where the fuck are my pants?
I heard the door open and made a shitty attempt to hide my nakedness behind the desk chair in front of me. A girl walked into the room and let out a soft shriek at the sight of the naked girl in front of her. Her jaw dropped as she struggled to find the right words to say in this incredibly uncomfortable situation.
“Hi, I’m sorry,” I spit out. “I’m Abby. I literally have no idea how I got here last night. Did you pick me up outside on the row or something?” I paused, trying to fit in my most awkward questions into this introduction. “And do you have my pants?”
The girl, let’s call her Melissa, was mind-blown at everything I just threw at her. She explained that she had spent the night at her boyfriend’s house and had no idea how I managed to get into both her sorority house and her bedroom. Both doors can only be opened with a key, which I obviously didn’t have. I couldn’t tell is Melissa was more scared, uncomfortable, or amused, but I knew she wanted me out of her room as fast as possible. After several attempts to fit into her size extra small pants, she lent me a pair of her boyfriend’s boxers and I made my way back to my sorority. It was by far the most uncomfortable morning of my college career.
I was welcomed back to the house by a swarm of sisters who had spent all morning searching campus for me. After explaining my story to them, everyone tried to somehow understand how I possibly could have broken through two doors in our rival sorority’s house. The only possible explanation? Magic. And how do I know? Because the exact same thing has happened five times since that night. What now, Harry Potter?.
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