Busted for Boobs

Let me preface this entire story by saying that I am a chick. Sophomore year of college I lived in a lame-ass dorm. The only reason I chose to live there is because the rooms were in clusters of 3 and 4, so I had a single room as did 2 of my friends, namely my bf "Anne" and we all shared a bathroom. This was the best situation at NU by far. It sucked because everyone around us was really lame, but it was nice because we would simply go elsewhere to party and it was always quiet when we wanted to sleep all day.

A few small incidents lead up to the story here. Mainly, in the "suite" next to ours lived 4 girls who basically sucked at life. They would always be hanging out together, never went out, would leave all their doors open so they could run in each others rooms and giggle. For one of their 21st birthdays they decorated the hall outside of her rooms and literally played video games all night.

Let me reiterate, this girl DID NOT go out on her 21st birthday. Anne and I return home this evening after a long night of underage drinking and are appalled at the lame decorations and begin hitting the balloons taped to her wall and door around the hallway. One girl comes bursting out of her room and yells at us, screaming over and over, "why would you do that on her birthday?!" A few weeks prior to this, I had got a call from Anne to come find her because she was so wasted she didn't know where she was on campus. As we returned home around 3 a.m., on a weeknight, I had to hold her up as we walked down the hallway, she ran into the same girls door and the bitch just hated us.

Cut to a few weeks later, and I go check my mailbox and find several, what I would call, porn "leaflets". Not full on magazines, but like advertisements for porn. They were addressed to my room but instead of a name, simply said "Current Resident". After smoking a few day bowls, I find it hilarious that the guy who lived in my room last year was a porno junkie and proceed to tape these leaflets all over the hallway in between my room, Anne's room and the bitchy girls. (Note: my RA who was really cool and would spray air freshener in the hallway for us when it would reek of weed saw these and only laughed and said nothing.)

Apparently, the prude bitch quartet weren't as amused. They went to the RA and claimed I was sexually harassing them by taping up the leaflets as well as having loud sex with my door open and running around naked. I had one of those doors that, if it wasnt locked, could open with a strong breeze, and I know for a fact that one time I was with my boyfriend the door this happened. And there would be times I would cross the 3 foot hallway to Anne's room while in some state of undress. Other than that, they were full of shit. Sorry you've never been penetrated and no guy would ever want to fuck you, but get a fucking life.

I had to meet with the head of residential affairs because they had never had a girl being accused of this before. I couldn't believe I was getting in trouble, when I was subjected to some stupid porn leaflets in MY mailbox which were requested by a previous resident. Furthermore, they were edited so that the only nudity was breasts. The Res Life lady seemed by baffled by all of this as well, but she was more concerned with why I would tape them up. I thought it was ridiculous that there could be a poster for the Vagina Monologues that said "Cunt" but I couldn't hang up a pic of some boobies. She didn't appreciate this distinction. She threatened "sensitivity training" but I refused as I didn't want to have to go and be the only girl amongst a bunch of date rapists trying to learn that "no means no." She asked me what I thought my parents would say about this, and I said they would find it hilarious, where do you think I got it from? I was put on housing probation for the rest of the year and got a formal letter requesting that I find some place to live my junior year besides University Housing.

Sorry for sexually harassing a some girls. Not sorry for partying.

- Jacqueline
Northwestern University

A Special Feature

An oldie but a goodie...

Study: Alligators Dangerous No Matter How Drunk You Are

Thanks to Jen in Chicago for the link!

If Hansel & Gretel Had Gone to College

It was my junior year at Northwestern, but apparently I hadn't out grown the dorms.

Having lived in both Elder and Bobb as an underclassman, and as a junior living on Ridge between Noyes and Simpson, I still felt that North Campus pull and of course, like a mosquito drawn to light, who can resist Thee 1800 Club. I suppose that wasn't really a question?

As most nights usually started out, I had played one, maybe five, too many games of beer pong at a friend's house on Noyes. I got a ride as they were ending their night to meet another group at Hundo. This story is going nowhere fast; it was just another drunken night at 1800 Sherman Avenue. However, the next day as I pieced together all of the happenings of my night, the chain of events were recalled as something like this:

I woke up, sort of. I had class at 9 a.m., what time was it? Where the heck was I? As the Monday morning light began to seep in, and the drunkenness not-yet-hung-over daze of my Sunday night also took hold, I tried to get my bearings. I was in the fourth floor Bobb lounge on the super duper comfy lounge couch. I was still drunk. I had no shoes on.

As I took a look around my numb body, it turns out, in addition to my shoes, the following articles were also missing: my socks, my sweater (it was February), my belt, and my purse. In my purse were the following articles: my keys, my digital camera, my phone, my wallet, my I.D., and other various purse related knick-knacks.

As I rallied off the Bobb fourth floor lounge couch, though rally is a bit ambitious, the pieces really started coming together. I had walked from 1800 to Bobb after leaving 1800 last night in the freezing cold of a Chicago, February, Sunday night. Why? Haven't a clue. Not having any keys to get into Bobb as I was no longer a resident, I suppose I had seen someone in passing and convinced them it was a good idea to let me in. Or so I vaguely recall. In fact, I think it was a freshman baseball player living on the first floor. Yeah, definitely. I proceeded to get up to the fourth floor, knock on the door of my last year's dorm room, drunkenly scare the bejesus out of the current girls living there, and meander down to the lounge to call it a night. But not before I planted a few land mines that I was, now, witch hunting. You see, there are several Bobb/McCulloch lounges and I had left a Hansel and Gretel like trail, it seemed, in at least one of them. I found my belt in the lounge catercorner to the one I had slept in. Real cute. I looked through the rest of the lounges, no clues. Worse, no more lost articles surfaced. Nothing was rearing it's ugly, albeit useful, head.

That's when it hit me. I was going to have to walk home shoeless, sweaterless, keyless, phoneless and everything else less. I was in a sleeveless shirt, but thank God I had my belt. Yes, thank God for that. This wasn't even a walk of shame, pretty sure I had made it through the night alone on that couch. Feeling pretty meager, I put my head down and set off on my pilgrimage from the Bobb Hall fourth floor lounge to my Ridge and Simpson apartment in hopes my roommate was there to let me in. It was 8 a.m.

On the way, a few key events took place. One, I didn't really see anyone I knew. Needless to say, I was thankful for that. I did, however, make eye contact with a middle aged man on the corner of Noyes and Sheridan.

"Nice shoes," he said.

A bit further down Noyes, I see a minivan pull to the curb. A Dad hops out, lets a few little kids out of the back seat. It's time for school guys. The kids are cute in their mittens and poofy winter coats. I am not. I think the Dad knows. A few years later I was to spend one lovely day observing at this Evanston Montessori school.

I make it to my place. My feet are freezing. In fact, everything about me is freezing. Knock, knock, knock. My roommate is not home.

I walk to Hamlin to my best friend's apartment. She was part of the crew that dropped me off at Hundo, surely she called it an early night and is still in bed? I buzz and buzz. Finally, she lets me in. I give her the abbreviated I'm-still-drunk version of what's happening and what has already happened. I think she gives me some advil and I crawl into bed with her for the remainder of the morning. A little later, I call in to cancel my credit card seeing as my wallet is missing. One for Buddha.

My shoes never turned up. It was a shame because they were brand new. Neither did my sweater, also brand new, or my socks. The one fortunate thing that transpired from my morning in bed at my friend's: she had my spare set of car keys. After missing all of my classes that day, obviously, I borrowed some clothes and set out on my crumb trail. First stop, Hundo. No sign of any of my missing articles. But the owner, in clear recognition of who I was and what I had done the night before, manages the following observation:

"Yeah, you were pretty wasted last night."

Driving down Sherman into downtown Evanston, I see my roommate. Sweet irony. We stop to chat and she basically tells me she has no information for me. None whatsoever.

The details are fuzzy two years later, but I somehow managed to get ahold of the friends I had been with at Hundo. I think I drove over and stopped by, but not before I spoke with them on the phone. I wonder who's phone I used? Maybe my roommate's, while we chatted about the absolute absence of details from my rampage. Anyway, they had my purse. And everything in it.

"Seriously, you left 1800 last night without it. And without us. You just disappeared, we had no idea what happened to you. At one point we looked around and you were just... gone."

New life, my phone was restored. When I went through my digital camera a few days later, they had taken some pretty humorous pictures posing with my left-behind purse. And some video footage, too, teasing the shit out of me.

A story is born.

- Elizabeth
Evanston, IL

Ending Freshman Year With a Bang... and a Boot

Finals week, Freshman year of college. Everyone was scheduled to head home Saturday a.m. so Friday night we decided to drink in the dorms before heading out to some house parties. We lived in an OLD ass dorm which was intact from when the school was all male and literally had a disgusting bathtub in one of the community bathrooms.

My roommate was done with finals at the beginning of the week and had already moved out so I offered my room as the place to do a power hour. (If you don't know what this is, you are lame and didn't go to college. but just in case, its where you take a shot of beer every minute for an hour, in most instances it goes along with a "power hour" CD which plays 60 second tracks.) We begin drinking, and I leave to go smoke a blunt outside with a few friends, since I had already been busted for blazing in my dorm room earlier in the year.

I come back to the room, we continue drinking, and there is a knock on the door. Everyone hides their beers as I hear my R.A.'s voice ask to come in. I promptly take off my shirt and answer the door. She says she can smell alcohol. I tell her we were out drinking, came back to the room so I could change, and that we would leave. She tried to insist I let her in, and I continued lying and telling her we weren't drinking there, that we were in fact drinking elsewhere, and to let me change and we would leave. Eventually she bought it, we bounced, and I was everyone's hero since we were pretty much all on housing probation for prior drinking incidents and would have been fucked if we got caught.

I went on to blackout that night, and woke up in the morning on my bare mattress (I had packed everything knowing my parents were coming early and I would be hungover). There are "hidden" beer cans EVERYWHERE. In my empty desk drawer, closet, behind the bed and several had spilled. It literally smelled like a brewery and my parents were due in 20 minutes to move me out. (Note, I am 18 at the time and my parents are NOT cool.) I opened all the windows, Lysoled the shit outta the place and started throwing beer cans out the window.

As the last Key Stone Light is projected from my 2nd story window, I can see my dad's car pull up. I throw some clothes on, and try to put on a happy, non-hungover face. We pack up all my shit and almost start driving away when all of a sudden, I realize that I am going to vomit. A lot. I manage to lie about forgetting something, run to the community bathroom past someone's mom, and vomit in the first place I make it to - the nasty, crusty bathtub. I rinse my mouth out in the sink as this J Crew mom just stared at me in utter horror. I mumbled an apology and left my first year at Northwestern with pride.

Sorry for throwing up right near your mom in her business casual blouse. Not sorry for partying.

- Anonymous
Northwestern University

The Cops Are Here?

My freshman year of college, I had a lethal union with my best friend Caroline. By lethal I meant that before even leaving campus (Mt. Holyoke) to do our usual Amherst weekend scene, we would leave with a smart water bottle 1/3 - 1/2 full of 100º Smirnoff Vodka with Redbull/Rockstar.

Every year, the biggest frat on Amherst campus throws a huge Christmas party held at a local bar and, of course, Caroline and I were some of the first ones on that shuttle so as to get in before they capped the place. So basically, we showed up at the bar at 10:30 already pretty well oiled with our Vodka/Redbull.

As the drunken stupor starts to overtake us, we both pick up a Gin/Tonic and proceed to the dance floor where I immediately locate the highest point in the room (which happened to be a flimsy table), climb it, and start to dance. Mind you, I was the only one dancing on a table. Of course, the manager comes and instructs me to descend from the table.

Upon my descent, I eye a boy whom I had spotted months ago as a potential hook-up only to realize that he had a girlfriend. But for some reason that night, I had seemed to forget. So I start dancing with him and soon enough, he turns to my friend after I had started to get a little frisky, and asks her to remind me that yes - he is STILL in a relationship. Did I mind? No, because the bar was stocked with plenty more Gin & Tonics. So I decide to follow my calling.

Now at this point things begin to get fuzzy and the next thing I remember I am coming out of the bathroom with caroline (who has a full drink in the her hands) and try to escort her to the dancefloor. However, we see a sea of people going towards the door. Completely confused, I shout:

"Where is everybody going? Let's DANCE!"
To which I am replied
"The cops are here."

"No way. Really? Oh well - I'm going to DANCE! Come with me Caroline!"
Caroline: "I have a full drink with me! Fuck this!" So she pours her entire drink in her purse and, after futile attempts to fight against the tide, decide to go outside and wait for the shuttle after being throughly disappointed by the early end to the evening.

Skipping over more few drunk escapades, we wake up the next morning three to a futon in our friends' common room to the gentle yelps of our friends banging in their room. Not only was this not our preferred wake up call, but we were all comatose. Caroline was trying to cuddle with me as a feeble attempt to keep warm and I had kept pushing her off while repeating
"Caroline. Stop. People will think we're together!"

Eventually, after having to fight off my best friend's advances, I decide to get out of bed, walk across campus to the car and get home. But it wasn't that easy. I had to borrow my friend's football warm up clothes to walk across the campus - which means Amherst College and Amherst town citizens were lucky enough to see me walk in XXXL Amherst Football gear and heels on a Friday morning with a disheveled looking Caroline at my side and another charming lady following us from a short distance who happened to drop a bra on her way to meet us. In front of incoming traffic.

What a beautiful sight.

Not sorry for partying, but sorry for not bringing a change of clothes.

- Tiff
Amherst, MA

Beernoculars - Caution: Objects May Be Larger Than They Appear

Reference is made to the late ‘90s and the San Francisco Bay area. I’m two years out of law school I’ve decided to move to California and start a career in venture capital. Being an idiot, I managed to avoid working in tech and instead picked the rockin’ area of healthcare services. The dotcom bubble had caused rents in San Fran to go crazy and I didn’t have the bank for rent in the Mission area much less the Marina or Knob Hill. Settling for some rat-trap in Walnut Creek (think Naperville w/ hills and mountains), I settled into my new life by … drinking very heavily. Sudden, extreme drunkenness would come out of nowhere.

Reference is made to a Friday night in the summer of 1999. It was typical summer weather for the Bay area – overcast, temperature in the seventies but with a cold wind. In the late afternoon I ditch work and take the BART into San Fran to meet one of my college friends who’d just flown in to SFO. My friend, who we’ll call Mike (because that’s his actual name), lived down in L.A. and we’d taken to trading weekends every month or so, trolling the bars of our respective cities for fun, adventure, and good conversation (a.k.a. getting wasted and looking for women). Getting to the Irish Bank, Mike already had 2 Guinness and I join him at the bar. We start catching-up over drinks – typical bullshit about people, sports, politics, and money. Soon it’s 7 PM and we’ve both had 8 or 9 beers each. The Bank is packed and it’s relatively social, yet we’re affected by bar angst (this is when the bar is perfectly fine but, in your buzzed state, you convince yourself there’s a better scene someplace else). Soon we are looking for a taxi and heading to the Mission.

Reference is made to Skylark, a hip little place in the heart of the Mission area. The crowd is more sophisticated, full of alternative rockers and want-to-be artists, listening to the techno that was so popular at the time. I’m in love with one the waitresses that works there, so this is why we find ourselves sitting at the back of the bar being served by … another waitress. Back then vodka was such the hip thing to have, so I’ve switched to vodka martinis and Mike is having some yuppie microbrew. Mike and I have stopped talking now because we’re getting hammered and want to talk to women. We strike up conversation with two girls who are clearly on the prowl. Mike says almost nothing so I have to carry things along. By now I’m so drunk I’m not sure if I’m attracted to either one of them, but I realize that one is larger than the other so, naturally, I go for the smaller one. Of course, smaller is a relative term. I start buying drinks and shots (though I could barely afford to) and the 4 of us get very wasted. At some point I’m taking a piss in the men’s room and look at myself in the mirror: conservative haircut parted at the side, crumpled Brooks Brothers blue suit, a white shirt with Guinness stains on the sleeve, and a rep tie. I think, “Could I be a bigger asshole?” Then that age-old question is answered as I pay the bill and the 4 of us leave for … a club.

Reference is made to god-knows-where. It’s now 11 or so. I nearly piss myself waiting in line, but soon I’m buying drinks in some mostly-gay club that I’ll go out on a limb to say was in the Castro. Mike is quiet, drunk and scared. I am staring at the little/big girl’s chest and imagining that she’s the best person I ever met, a veritable sex machine waiting for me to drive. We connected over some issue – I can’t remember what it was – probably music. Suddenly I’m dancing with her and she’s grinding on me and all of these good-looking gay guys are rolling their eyes. I’m drinking some bottled beer, which I managed to drop in the middle of the dance floor, attempt to pick up, and then fall over. Then I find myself in a bathroom stall with Little/Big and I’m receiving a Clintonesque expression of affection to no avail. This sobered me up and I realized that if Little/Big and I end up in a relationship, we’re going to save a lot on pants because she’s the same size as me. I hear people snickering in the bathroom and I’m suddenly asking myself, “What the fuck am I doing?” I cancel the sex and extricate myself from the awkwardness, find Mike who’s been babysitting Big/Big, who’s wearing my tie for some reason, and we split.

Reference is made to the last BART out of the city to Walnut Creek. Mike and I sit down and I promptly pass out. Next thing I know I wake up a minute before getting to my stop and see that Mike has disappeared. I had a cell phone but Mike didn’t, so calling him was not an option. I get off the train and wisely decided that I needed another drink. It’s only 1 AM after all, so I walk to Crogan’s, this little Irish bar in the Creek where I’m in love with one of the waitresses. I’m mad at Mike because I think he’s ditched me because of the Big/Big-bisexual club situation. My anger sobered me up some more, so I manage to nurse a few more beers and talk to my waitress. Being coherent my somewhat limited charm returns, and I end up closing the place and she comes home with me.

Reference is made to 4 AM in my crappy little apartment. I’ve got the waitresses’ shirt off and I’m fumbling around, making a great case for her not to like me when the doorbell rings. I open the door and it’s noble, brave Mike – like a returning golden retriever from some animal adventure movie – standing there with his bag, asking me for money to pay a cabbie. I had to borrow cash from the poor waitress. Mike tells me that while we were on the train he had to throw-up, so when the train reached a stop he went running off to find a bathroom. He tried waking me but I slept through it. He got off at the Rockridge stop in Berkeley, found a bathroom and puked. When he was finally done he came out only to find the station had closed and locked-up. He had no idea we took the last train of the night and BART shut-down. So he was trapped in the station for a few hours until some janitor let him out. After he escaped, Mike had to find a cab and somehow describe getting up to my place, which took them forever and resulted in a $50 fair. Mike takes the couch and I go to bed, pass out and wake-up at noon the next day in a panic – the waitress is gone (though we ended up dating for a while after that), I remember Little/Big, the club, all the money spent, poor Mike’s misadventure, the shit I said to the waitress trying to pick her up… my regret and shame ran deep.

- Bryan the Anarchist
Los Angeles

Seriously. Who am i?

As someone who didn't join a sorority at NU where as ALL my friends did, I became the go-to girl for dateless date parties, formals, etc. One night I accompanied one of my best friends to a date party at Sangria on Weed street after a long day of actually doing work (one of maybe 10 such days throughout my Northwestern career). To do said work, I drank countless red bulls, iced coffees, etc and ate almost no food. I think we all know what's coming next.

Pregame with some Lemon Drop shots and fill a half bottle of Melon Propel with some delicious Svedka. We get to Sangria and I am Gone. We arrived around 8, so people were eating dinner at the tables scattered around the bar, and I literally would wait for people to get up and leave and run to their tables before busboys could get there so that I could eat their bread/leftover food. The best part about the night was that no matter how drunk I got, I never blacked out. Strange.

After enjoying countless mojitos and glasses of sangria included in the open bar package, I decided I wanted to have sex. Seeing no prospects, I promptly ditched my friends (and even worse, an open bar), never told anyone where I was going, and left Sangria, texting my hook up buddy from home. He responded saying he would drive out to Evanston (almost an hour drive) so I got in a cab to head back to my apartment. I told the cabbie I only had 12 dollars and asked if he would take me home anyway (the cab should've cost around 20-25). He said that was fine as long as I sat in front with him and gave him my number. Done.

I arrive a block from home (didnt want the cabbie to know where I lived), fall as I'm getting out of the cab into a huge mud puddle, and proceed to be a complete mess as I try to make it to my place and up my stairs while taking off my mud soaked pants. At this point it was only maybe 11:30, so the rest of the girls who lived in my building who I wasnt really friends with, some of whom blatantly did not like me, witnessed this as they were heading to what I presume was the Deuce. Instead of saying hi I awkwardly walked past them pantless and fell into my place. I hopped in the shower since I was all muddy and had a boy coming over.

My last memory is getting a text from my guy saying he was almost there. I woke up in the morning, naked in bed with 567898 missed calls and texts from the friend I ditched at the date party, a very pissed off booty call who drove almost an hour for nothing, as well as texts from creepy cab driver.

I miss college.

Sorry for leaving an open bar event with almost an hour left. Not sorry for partying.

- Jacqueline
Chicago/Evanston, IL

Isn't that the boy who got first aid in 7/11 last night?

Last Saturday, my friends Jessica, Becca, and I decided to stay in and have a relaxed wine night. Jessica's friend, Katie showed up, with a bottle of Grey Goose and since I wasn't really enjoying the $5 bottle of wine I decided to take some shots. The lasts thing I remember is thinking, "wow, my tolerance has really improved, I've done a lot of these and feel nothing..."

Next thing I know, I'm waking up in my bed the next morning with a gaping wound on my hand, cuts on both knees and my shin, and blood soaked sheets. This seemed a little bizarre given that I'd stayed in, but honestly not all that surprising if you actually know me, and I just figured I should keep an eye open for broken glass around my apartment. It wasn't until later that day in Whole Foods when I noticed someone pointing me out to her friend and saying "I think that's the boy who got first aid in 7/11 last night!" Needless to say I made a phone call to Jessica...

So here's how it actually went down. We ran out of vodka, not surprising at the rate I was going, and I demanded that we go finish off the night at Hundo. I seemed to be fine at this point so Katie and Jessica agreed to go with me, and we walked over. No sooner did we arrive at Hundo, than I suddenly brought a wrath down upon Evanston, the likes of which its probably never seen.

As we walked up to the bar, I noticed an acquaintance, Anne, who for no particular reason I decided to shit on that night, by literally screaming out my hatred for her (bare in mind that I barely know this person and have no strong feelings either way about her)... Mid rant, I slipped on a sheet of ice (I'm sorry but the Evanston sidewalks are lethally icey) and completely wiped out, basically at the feet of the bouncer who, shockingly, refused me entrance. Poor Anne tried to cover for me by saying that she accidentally tripped me, at which point I started screaming at her again for tripping me, as Jessica and Katie watched in abject horror. I then proceeded to scurry into the bar, in the hopes that the bouncer wouldn't notice. He did. As he forcibly dragged me out of the bar, back to my friends they realized that I was bleeding profusely from my hand and decided it was probably a good time to leave.

The problem now was how petite girls were going manage to get drunken, belligerent, and now profusely bleeding, me home. Jessica spotted a friend of hers, Jose, who let us bum a cab ride with him since we didn't have any cash. At this point it became clear that I probably needed some sort of medical assistance as my arm was completely drenched in blood and it was dripping off of me. Jose offered to drop us at 7/11 and give us money for another cab back to my building which was really nice considering, I kept calling him Michael Jackson (apparently a reference to his terrible nose job) in the cab and also managed to mortally offend our cab driver with my drunken ebonics, to the point where Jessica had to actually apologize to him. I fell two more times between exiting the cab and entering 7/11, thus explaining my other wounds, but apparently my mood picked up once we got to 7/11.

Once in the store I proceeded to dance around the aisles, flailing my arms. If not for the blood literally splattering off of my finger tips, the faces of concerned patrons, and my yelling "don't worry, I don't have any diseases" you probably wouldn't have known anything was wrong with me. Jessica and Katie did their best to calm me down but didn't really have much luck until I collapsed in the back of the store. Jessica began sobbing, terrified of all the blood, and that they'd have to bring me to the hospital, so Katie (a girl I really had just met that night mind you) tried to carry/drag me, dripping blood through the aisles to find band aids. Once we got to the counter, the woman at the register was so concerned that she helped Katie hold me down, whipped out their first aid kid, and cleaned out my wounds.

My wounds now clean, though still bleeding profusely through their bandages, Jessica and Katie decided it was time to brave the cab ride home. Shockingly, the cab driver was put off by Jessica's sobbing and running make up and my excessive bleeding and tried to refuse us service. Luckily we have issues with authority, and I was too drunk to care, so we got in anyways. Apparently I was much better behaved this cab ride, but Jessica and Katie ran into some trouble when we arrived at my building and the cabbie noticed that I had stained the seat really badly with blood. They tried to convince him it was only water, and he obviously wasn't buying it and made them try and clean it out. Meanwhile, not being one for cleaning, I climbed out of the cab and lay down and began writhing and screaming on the sidewalk.

As I lay on the sidewalk, kicking and screaming like a 3 year old, Brady, a reserved and staunchly conservative southern gentleman type, that I have worked with on a few group projects in the past, walked by on a date (it was probably only about 1:30 am at this point, as we'd started drinking wine at 8). He offered his salutations and I yelled something back, probably sounding like a feral child. Then, seeing that Katie and Jessica (and by Katie and Jessica, I mean just Katie, the girl I literally had just met, since Jessica would not go near me on account of all the blood) were struggling to get my bleeding, screaming carcass off of the pavement, Brady took a detour from his date to do the chivalrous thing and help them lug me inside. Not only inside, but up the elevator where my potty mouth resurfaced, offending an older Indian couple that got out of the elevator rather than ride up with me, then into my apartment, and into bed. Apparently Brady's date was no help at all... bitch.

From there, Jessica and Katie cleaned me up, re-bandaged me, soaked my blood stained clothes in the sink and got me into bed where I awoke in my confused and disoriented state the next morning, oblivious to the events that had transpired the night before, until I got called out in Whole Foods as the boy who got first aid in 7/11 the previous night... Sorry for offending most of the civilized world... sorry for bleeding on people.. sorry for date-crashing... pissed about the fucking wounds all over my body...and sorta sorry for partying....

- Anonymous
Evanston, IL

Should Have Worn My Depends...

Well it all started out one Saturday night and I decided I wasn't going to drink much. I had gone out with my boyfriend and some of his friends and we started pre-gaming with a fifth of cheap vodka (maybe absolut? or smirnoff?) at one of his friend's house. One shot turned into two turned into half of the fifth for me (I am not a heavy drinker mind you) and I'm absolutely wasted.

We proceed to go to some girls loft in Lincoln Park (apparently someone's girlfriend?) where I have a couple more shots and from there they decide that we'll be going to Grotto.

Well we get to Grotto and I don't remember anything..I was going in and out of blacking out but I remember my boyfriend (who was almost completely sober) introduced me to someone and his girlfriend. I had never met this girl before but I had insisted that she had hooked up with my boyfriend and yelled at her saying that she is a fucking whore because she blew my boyfriend. I ran out in a childish fit and we started on our way home.

My boyfriend decided that he was hungry, so he stopped somewhere and tried to get me out of the car, but I was too wasted to even understand what he was saying and I passed out.

When we got back to his house, he gave me the grilled cheese he bought me and I insisted that he make me another. He said the only way he would do this is if I was naked when he came back. He was, of course, kidding, but because I was such an idiot, I listened. When he came back upstairs I was passed out, naked.

I woke up in the middle of the night, the bed soaking wet....I had pissed all over myself and the grilled cheese was sitting on the table, untouched and made my boyfriend clean up my piss.

So sorry for saying you blew my boyfriend...so sorry I wet the bed..not sorry I made you clean it up..and not sorry for partying.

- Anonymous
Chicago