Apple cinnamon morning

I just got done recalling the events of yesterday evening to my roommate. I made sure to tell her before I left about my own feelings on partying. I won’t go into them now but you’ll probably be able to tell as this post continues.

It was beautiful, flying on impulse to get there. An Eastman party? You may be thinking.

Yeah, well, it was pretty rad, in many regards. Ke$ha Night was an evening to remember, and I’ll be one of the three who will actually remember all of it.

We got in a car, and I had to sprawl across the laps of three guys. Pretty cool, as I re-met a Sabres fan who was actually straight (surprise!). They’d all been pregaming but the driver, so the ride there was highly entertaining. It’s so much easier to just say what you’re thinking when you’re around tipsy people: they really don’t care if you end up sounding stupid.

We were supposed to pay three dollars upon arrival, and unbutton our pants “So you don’t get raped.” Okay, so comforting. It was really beer money, though, so I guess charging made sense if the host was the one willing to toss away X amount of money on booze for everyone. I was wearing leggings, so obviously I didn’t have anywhere to keep my money. As it was, my ID was tucked safely in my boot and my phone was in my hoodie pocket. I asked John to pay for me… I’d say I’ll pay him back but I think I may see if he recalls it first. (That’s a lie, I’ll probably slip him three bucks over dinner later, if he’s functioning enough to eat.)

Booooze.

Anyway. We met some sophomores in there, and I pretty much stuck close to them because one wasn’t drinking and I knew them. In a giant mob of random strangers, they understood and I tagged along with them. Ke$ha wasn’t even playing upstairs: they had four of her songs. Regardless, a dance party was beginning to stir up so enough people migrated up to either ignore or venture over to the porn playing on the TV in the upstairs corner, and eventually dance. Most of the kids I knew were dancing.

I kind of felt awkward without a cup in my hand, and if there had been pop downstairs I would’ve tried to snag some of that. As it was, kids kept asking me if I’d gotten anything to drink, and when I nodded and smiled vapidly they believed me… cool.

Half an hour (roughly) into the goings-on the cops showed up. This sounds alarming, but to the sober girl in the midst of raging drunkenness, it’s almost a level-headed situation. Walk out, walk away, the cop has better things to do than arrest you.

And that’s exactly how it played out. The DD picked a bunch of us up but this time the car was filled to double recommended capacity, so we walked after we reached a certain street. After reaching the living center we sat outside for quite a while making sure people were getting back, talking, and laughing at John the diva, who decided to have his own personal dance party with GaGa on his phone. Who knew alcohol brought out the sass in tenors?

At around a few of us went in. In retrospect, it was a good night to be sober, because A.) no one could tell anyway and B.) it’s easiest to feel comfortable in any situation when I’m completely in control of the situation. I feel like I’m not stupid enough to get trashed in front of people I barely know. I mostly just was along for the experience and the laughs. Call me what you want, but I like to think of it as responsible. I’m getting out and enjoying different elements of college as well, but I’m doing it in a way that won’t put me in danger or damage my recollection of things that happened.

And now, because of that, I can sit here this morning and put it all into words. I can sit and enjoy the fall chill seeping through the window and the simple pleasure of wearing warm penguin socks. I can drink my apple cinnamon tea with no headache and no sour, gross slime slicing through my system. I’m not saying I’m above getting drunk, or anything (not at all). I just think that for me, it was safer and more entertaining to stay aware of everything. And to be honest, even sober it was pretty fun.

So that’s my story. My tea’s getting cold.

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