It’s 12:13 PM. You wake up to the muffled sound of Luke Combs playing from your kitchen. Disoriented and confused, your hands begin searching for your phone as your mind races looking for answers for what happened last night. You’ve seen this movie one too many times. After finding a cracked phone with four emails from Bank of America, seventy-seven GroupMe notifications, and a slew of Snapchat “is-typings,” you begin to wallow in self-pity. \ What do you remember last? Okay, somebody was taking lines in my bathroom, something about a girl calling someone an asshole, and peeing in the street. You trip over my once white Nikes that have undergone a reverse-Michael Jackson-color-transition and begin walking to the kitchen before looking down and inexplicably realizing that for some reason, you have a half-chub. Hence, you go back to my room and throw on a tee-shirt as a half-assed attempt to hide it from your roommates. There’s absolutely no way you’re going out tonight.
Jeb Bush had a better chance of becoming President than you did of attending your first class, but it’s okay because you’re the Philip Rivers of academia: you don’t show up until the second half. Because your pantry is going through its version of the Dust Bowl, you elect to walk two blocks and grab a sandwich. This is the worst part of being hungover by far. It’s mid-way through the afternoon, and you’re surrounded by people that have their lives more put together than you do, as you have less control over your bowel movements than an eighty-four-year-old woman. With that being said, an Italian sub with a little bit of oil and vinegar is the lord’s version of holding X after you got merked in Zombies.
In an attempt to feel like less of a piece of shit, at 3:30 you make your way to the gym. There are 3 types of people at a college gym in January: gymshark girls/ grilled chicken guys, oversized tee-shirt people, and New Year’s resolution optimists that won’t be there in two weeks. As you’re sitting on the bench halfway through KFCbarstool’s one-minute man, you see a hot girl that you did a project with last year, and immediately at ten pounds to whatever you’re lifting. Can you handle it? Probably not. But if you’ve learned anything from 50 Cent’s best album that you blare in your car as you don’t relate to the lyrics, it’s that you either need to get rich or die trying.
When you’re back at home peeing in the shower, you start to do that Spider-Man thing where water shoots from your fingers. There’s nothing cooler than feeling like a fucking avatar. After you and your friend pick up a 4 for 4 from Wendy’s, you toss on the episode of South Park where the boys think that they need to return an alien Orca-Whale back to his planet. And just as you’re about to tell the room that you’re not going out tonight, in walk three kids with two racks. You didn’t stand a chance.
