I love parties. Like, I really love parties. The dancing, the obnoxious laughter, the excuse to eat whatever you want while suffering from the drunchies… everything about it. Well, almost everything.
I work over 40 hours a week between my jobs, so it’s a pretty safe bet that when I get home every night I want to A) drink and B) never leave the comfort of my house. This usually means that I invite people over, but try to leave once we’ve drained the liquor cabinet. Unfortunately, however, I have a problem of letting the pregame get out of hand. Honestly, it’s about a 50/50 shot that any of us will make it out when we start drinking at my house. This past Friday was one of those nights where we did not make it out.
My alarm bitch slapped me out of my sleep at the crack of dawn (okay, 8 a.m., but still) on Saturday morning. I immediately felt the worst hangover I had felt in a while, so I went to the kitchen to grab some water and try to nurse it off before work. But instead, the migraine only got worse because to put it lightly, my house was a fucking nightmare. Apparently I run a hotel because there were people passed out left and right in my living room. Being the maternal person I am, I politely told them to get the fuck out so I could start cleaning.
Now, there is no real way to completely describe the monstrosity that was my house that morning, but just know it was horrifying. For example, my dishwasher had been kicked in, my blinds were broken, my stripper pole was on the ground, oh, and there was an enchilada smashed into the carpet. While I don’t pretend to be an expert on food that comes from south of the border, I can say with some degree of confidence that enchiladas belong in a stomach. Not in my carpet.
I spent literally two hours mopping up the beer, washing the dishes and throwing out the trash. My hangover getting worse every moment. By the time I made it to work, I was in the same clothes I left in the night before, and I had beer in my hair. Winning.
Of course, there is always the possibility that your apartment will get trashed if you throw a party. After all, we’ve all been caught red-handed after having a party in high school. But I don’t understand why it needs to be as bad as it is. Can we all try to take a minute to sign a mental contract that we will stop being awful savages at parties? That we will respect the house that allows us to participate in the debauchery that is our college lives?
Seriously, guys. I mean come on. An enchilada?.
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Blue-eyed-blondie
Blondie excels at being an underachiever. She is currently trying to add an extra year onto her undergrad so she can continue to down $7 bottles of wine in an environment that encourages her erratic behavior. After graduation, she has big plans to flunk out of a prestigious law school. Email her compliments and Netflix suggestions at blue.eyed.blondie.tsm@gmail.com EDIT** if you suggest Black Mirror she's already seen it. So stop suggesting it. Seriously. Please stop suggesting it.
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