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My Morning From Hell Part 1

I awoke, confused, to the intro guitar riff from Skynyrd’s “Simple Man.” After a brief thought that I had somehow entered Southern Rock Heaven with Ronnie Van Zant serenading my journey to the great beyond, I realized the actual culprit: alarm clock radio. This comforted me for a moment, until I realized it wasn’t the Target-bought neon blue device that I was used to. It was then I took note of my surroundings.

Sorority paddles on the wall. Lilly Pulitzer bedspread that was oddly reminiscent of an 80-year-old grandmother’s beach umbrella. An obnoxiously large dry-erase board with only two notes scribbled on its surface: “Study Physics” and “Don’t forget to take BC!” A sigh of relief instantly came over me, as I vaguely recalled “forgetting” to bring a condom out the night before. It became ever apparent that I was a victim of a blackout sorostitute shacking. Mysteriously enough, the hostess of my evening was nowhere to be found, nor were my pants. I scoured the endless big/little pictures on the wall, and was able to ascertain my midnight conquest’s identity. This would have been helpful, but I literally had no recollection of ever speaking a word to this girl, and all I had to go on was a fleeting thought of “Hey, at least she’s pretty hot.”

After a minor internal debate regarding the logistics of a possible morning BJ, I felt a maelstrom of dread overtake me. I had a mandatory in-class marketing quiz in thirty minutes, and I had no idea where the hell I was. I didn’t recognize the style of apartment complex, and gazing out the window offered no hints to speak of. In my haze of confusion I considered stepping out of my mystery woman’s room, until I remembered my missing pants and my now-regrettable decision to go “commando” the night before. As badly as I needed to relocate, I didn’t think that running around an apartment complex in a bottomless fury would be received too well, and for all I knew I could be anywhere from one to five hundred miles from my classroom.

Given the desperate situation, I gently cracked open her door to get a glimpse of the surrounding apartment. More paddles, more pictures, more flowery-vomit print Lilly, but no roommates. I was in the clear. I stepped into the living room, still very much naked, and picked up the first piece of mail I saw. I recognized the address as an apartment complex a mere ten minutes from my quiz-taking mecca.

Miraculously, my phone and wallet lay untouched on the bedside table, and I had just enough battery for one phone call.

“Thank you for calling the esteemed gentlemen of *** fraternity, this is lowly pledge Michael how can I help you today?”

“Well hello there Michael. This is most esteemed brother ***** *****, and I need a ride right now. I’m at **** apartment complex, get your ass over here. Also, what’s your pants size?”

I conveniently forgot to mention to him why I asked this final question, and abstained from telling him to actually bring an extra pair. There’s never a bad time to humiliate pledges.

“Finally, some luck.” I thought to myself, up until I heard the subtle jiggle of the front door handle. Without thinking, I performed a ridiculous leisure-dive inspired aerial maneuver to position myself adequately hidden behind the couch. I held my breath in the midst of all the naked confusion, and couldn’t help but shut my eyes as the door began to swing open…

TO BE CONTINUED

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StuffFratPeopleLike

StuffFratPeopleLike (@StuffFratsLike) is a writer for Total Frat Move, and due to his crippling OCD and functional alcoholism he can only understand and write text when presented in a numbered list format. So you're all jerks for calling him out on it. He is a self described Huguenot, and commands a secret sexual fetish for angry internet comments.

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