Total Freshman Move

As mentioned in Viva la Viva la Bam, I once lived in the medium-sized dump sandwiched in the Eastern Seaboard in between the big and small dumps — Philadelphia, PA. Sadly, I wasn’t there to see Turbonegro, but rather a lot of lecture halls and 7-Eleven sandwiches. I dipped the fuck out after a semester for a whole host of reasons, but a big one being that dorms are probably one of the most unnatural living situations a person can probably have.

I don’t want to complain too much since I know I was very fortunate and #blessed to even have the option to go away to school, but I’m also not one to lie and say I liked something that I didn’t (cue the twenty minute long video my sister took of me ranting in
the car after MD Doomfest trainwreck). Not to scare anyone who may be on the cusp of starting college in a new place and space, but chances are, unless you enjoy vigilante mall cop-level security patrols, complimenting people’s lame tapestries so that they’ll give you free drugs, or just generally possess an independent/introverted bone in your body, you’re gonna have a bad time.

Luckily, my roommate was at least pretty alright. We mostly just sat on our respective sides with headphones in starring into the internut. Our unofficial third roommate was her friend from high school who was also pretty alright, but for some reason she always wanted to fuck with these girls down the hall that were just 2 kewl for skewl. They liked Sublime and asking to cheat off you in class, which just made me like the thought of throwing myself off to top of the liberal arts building.

One thirsty Thursday in October we all somehow got roped into going *~out~* together, along with some of these chick’s dude friends who all worse backwards snapbacks and had those perpetual mouth-gaped facial expressions like they just hit the bong. This kid with a Black Flag stick and poke who I was kind of friendly with referred to one of them as Tussin after watching him spend orientation robotripping and trying to sell girls his “rave bracelets.” Anyways, contrary to what you may have seen on I’m Shmacked, partying at Temple U consisted of walking around looking for a party. Much like the rest of the school, parties that could be found were way overcrowded and underfunded to the point where there would be kids out front warning you not to go in as if they had just escaped being the thorax of a human centipede.

By midnight, the gang of us was getting pretty sick of wandering around aimlessly and hatched a plan to drink 40’s in a vacant lot. If I remember correctly, I was the little bitch that agreed to pay for them all since, yano, none of these kids ever had fucking money. The prices of Theraflu, ditch weed, and Reddi-wip are on the rise, I hear. But by that point, I was too in need of not being lucid that I had lost my ability to even care. So, I drank a Hurricane – two actually, for a total of 80 ounces of literal hobo piss. After a lot of street running and literally dragging my roommate’s friend off the double yellow, we somehow made it back to Peabody Hall, but I didn’t make it out of the night unscathed. Oh bitch, far from it.

**Warning: if reading on lunch break, abort mission immediately**

After a few moments of laying in bed (by the grace of god on my side), I projectile vomed all over my wall, my sheets – everything. Too fucked up to properly deal with the mess, I eventually just passed out and woke up the next morning to a second look at the Qdoba I had had for dinner. Confused and panicked, I spun my already spinning head around to my roomie’s florescent wall clock. I had slept through 9:00 AM quantitative methods and felt like a complete piece of shit. I never thought I would be one of “those” college kids, spending tons of money on classes just to blow them off. I forced myself up, determined to make it to Politics of Identity at 12:00.

Before I could even begin to deal with my bed, I knew I had to get myself cleaned up. As I stumbled down the hall to the showers, one of the RA’s who never really knew what to make of me struck me a look of horror. God, I knew I was tired, but I didn’t think I looked /that/ bad. That’s when I saw it – something in the bathroom mirror way worse than Bloody Mary. It was the reflection of my hair, the last six inches incrusted in half-digested burrito filling.

I will give myself some props here, I put on my big girl pants and I fucking dealt with it. I even made it to class and managed to sit there long enough to sign the attendance sheet before I had to leave to puke some more. At this point, I had moved on to throwing up the booze…every last ounce of it.

After sitting frog-legged on the cold tile floor of my dorm, heaving seven more rounds of yellow goo into a plastic bag, my roommate decided it was time with the most pivotal home truths session since Tyrika and Lauren’s Great Pregnancy Bomb of ’10.

“Jenna…” she said from the safety of lofted bed high ground, her voice wavering.
“Do you, like, remember what happened last night?”

Confused, I gave her the general rundown of us being dicks in the vacant lot. However, she hinted at the fact that she was trying to reference a specific incident.

“Well, you woke up in the middle of the night…and, well, sort of took a piss in my recycle bin.”

She wasn’t even mad, though. She just thought I should know. In retrospect, she was actually the trillest roommate of all time.

Nevertheless, the monumental clean-up effort and physical drainage paved the way for a long road to recovery. I don’t know if it was the dehydration or guilt of being a royal asshat, but I didn’t feel like myself for weeks afterwards. It was one of those nights that took a piece of you that you know you’re never really going to get back. Fortunately, the satiation from the caloric bomb of 7-Eleven egg salad and the pride of finally doing all my Spanish homework got me somewhat back on track, and I even managed to finish the semester with a 4.0. However, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t still finding tiny pieces of black bean and corn the day I moved out.

Moral of the story: Don’t mix Mexican and malt liquor. Also I’m a gross ass bitch.
I hope everyone has been enjoying these raunchy Arthur memes as much as I have. To my Canadian friends – I challenge you to fuck up Nanalan next.

And to all of my youth of a nation – go party while you still got a little summer left!