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An Ode To Shackers

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It’s all too familiar. The sun comes seeping in through a crack in your blinds, as your groggy, still drunk head wonders what the hell happened last night. Then you feel it. A small shuffle in your bed makes your eyes pop open bigger than the first time you laid eyes on Kate Upton. It’s a shacker.

You really should’ve seen this coming. Blacking out at the dirtiest bar in town? You knew better. More willing, albeit questionable at times, poon running around than at a casual Jordan Belfort party? Come on, man. Thoughts immediately flood your head, as with every time before.

“Fuck, I really hope this one isn’t ugly. If the guys see one more three coming out of my room, that nickname is gonna stick,” you think. You follow this with another thought: “Shit, I am in no condition to drive this chick home. Maybe if I lie here long enough I don’t have to see what she looks like and she’ll just leave.”

You feign sleeping for another half an hour. Nothing. She won’t leave, but it’s not her fault. You told her you’d drive her back in the morning. You told her it wasn’t a problem. You told her anything that would get her back to your place. Anything for the pussy. You really should have known better.

“Alright, fuck it, I’ll roll over. See what the damage is,” you think.

You take a deep breath and roll over. She’s not a three, but nothing to boast about–a six at best. You realize you don’t even remember her name, and that she’s wearing one of your favorite tees. Fuck.

You figure you might as well take advantage of the situation. You’re still a tad drunk, and some morning sex wouldn’t hurt. You pull a casual feel on a boob, clearly showing her what you want. She rolls over. Success. Alright, sexually dissatisfy her and get her the hell home. Pronto.

“What the fuck–this is the rankest morning breath ever,” you think. “Shit, can’t back out now. Fully torqued. No fucking way man. Pump and dump, let’s go. You can do this. Wait, no, no pump and dump. Condom. Right.”

You do the business, feeling like somewhat of a worthless human being, but also sort of feeling like you couldn’t care less. You finish, and she tries to cuddle. Not a chance. You haven’t studied seriously in weeks, but you tell her you have a huge exam tomorrow anyway and you need to get to work. She eyes you as if she knows you are full of shit. There is some truth to this, as the beer shits are knocking at your door. Tough life. But, again, you knew better.

You time it perfectly. Thank God. None of the brothers are around to see this one. You walk her out, begrudgingly take her home, and say your niceties, all still without knowing her name. You’ll probably never see her again. This is just as well.

You arrive home and nearly make it to your room as your hear one of the guys yell out, “She wasn’t a three, at least there is that. I’m still calling you Trey though. Not off the hook that easy.”

Fuck, so they did see. Must have been last night. That’s embarrassing. You enter your room and quietly stare at the wall for a few minutes while you hear the faint hum of The Beach Boys tune, “I Get Around,” from another room. How fitting.

But when it’s all said and done, you can’t blame her. You can only blame yourself. You know the shacker goes through some shit. You remember how she walked barefoot on some of the coldest floors and through the party rubble. You think how she’ll go home in your oversized t-shirt and mangled hair to a group of sorority sisters, where they’ll force her to share all the details. You think of how you snored like an animal, how you sexually disappointed her, how she fed you when you were too drunk to function. Yeah, you paid for the cab and her drunk late night food, but if anyone can put up with blackout you for a night, that person deserves some credit.

So this is to you shackers, hot or not, for putting yourselves out there. Whether you do it often or hardly at all, at the end of the night, our drunken selves look for company, our sad sacks endlessly pursuing the poon, only to forget about our battered egos and sexual failures. You come along and keep us in the game and let us know we accomplished something in our blacked out time. Thanks for that. You make a lot of drunk, horny men happy.

Until we wakeup in the morning.

Give us our clothes back.

But, then again, we knew better.

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Still cleaning up Baxter's poop in the refrigerator.

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