Stride of…No, Walk of Shame. It’s a Walk of Shame.
You wake up Friday morning after a bender feeling like shit, duh. You grab your phone, look at the time (7:27) and sigh. You’re about to go back to sleep and probably skip class today (massive hangover is an acceptable reason to stay home, right?) until out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of a poster of a half naked girl playing beer pong captioned “Get your balls wet.” This is not your room. Shit. What happened last night? You search your memory and are able to recall:
Vodka, vodka, vodka, vodka, “We really need to leave,” vodka, vodka, “BIGGGGG!!!!!!!!! Can we get in line with you?” dirty looks from geeds, vodka, vodka, “come pee with me,” vodka, “you’re like…so pretty! I love you,” vodka.
Great. That was no help at all. You take a peak to see who you’re next to, maybe it will spark something. Please be Mark, please be Mark, please be Mark…not Mark. Shit. What did you do? He’s completely clothed, and your underwear are still on. Couldn’t have been too bad. You probably just MO’ed. So what now? How are you going to get a ride home. Move around obnoxiously for a few minutes and hope he wakes up? Please? Wake up? You know what…you’re actually pretty sure you never want to see this guy again. Text all your roommates and see if someone can come get you. But where are you? Whatever, you’ll cross that bridge when it comes. Find all your shit. Dress? Check. Shoes? Fuck, what did you do to your shoe? Damn it, those were your favorite. Whatever. Two Shoes. Check. Clutch…with keys, wallet, and phone. Check, check, check. Bra… Where is your bra? Seriously where the fuck is your bra? And why haven’t your roommates responded? And WHERE is your bra! Shit. You really need to leave. You’re just going to have to leave it behind…and what’s worse…you’re going to have to do the walk of shame. Are you really going to do this? Just leave? Are you going to be that girl? Should you leave a note?
You slip on your hooker heels and sneak out of his apartment undetected. Just casually make your way to the elevator. Great. It’s exactly the time everyone’s leaving for class. Elevator rides of shame might be the worst part of your walk of shame. Sharing a confined space with 15 randos while wearing last night’s makeup, sex hair, and no bra kind of sucks. And he just HAD to live on the 17th floor. And the elevator just HAS to stop six times before you can escape the 5×6 cage of judgment you’re currently trapped in. It’s taking everything you have in you not to explain to everyone that you didn’t sleep with anyone last night, and make up a story about why you look the way you do. Instead you just smile politely, and pretend you’re wearing something that wouldn’t cause your father to go into cardiac arrest. Note to self: stay away from apartments in the future.
The walk isn’t that bad. You get honked at a lot, and feel a little awkward when a school bus drives by, but you just ignore the adolescent boys pointing at you and making gestures with their friends. You strive onward. After a thirty minute walk across your campus, your blisters from last night have reopened, and it’s cold enough that you could probably cut diamonds with your nipples (I guess that liquid blanket really did make a difference last night), but you’ve finally made it home. Your roommate wakes up as you walk in and tells you “I was just about to text you back.” Thanks for nothing, bitch. Can’t wait to “not hear my phone” when you’re deserted somewhere in the land of bad decisions. Well, at least it’s over I guess. You made it home alive, and after all, the shame only lasts as long as the stamp on your hand.