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An Average Night In College

It’s 7:07 PM. Your friend, who is the worst kind of sports bettor, is screaming at the TV like his kid just got merked in a school shooting because the Wizards game isn’t going to hit the over, and he bet five dollars on it. In an hour, you have to go to a girl-you-barely-know’s birthday-party where your friend’s girlfriend will push her former horse-girl friend from home on you. And in all honesty, if you continue to drink at this rate, you will absolutely let her shove a quarter in your ass and give her the best six-sweaty-minutes-then-mutually-decide-to-give-up-because-now-it’s-awkward-and-your-drunk-so-this-isn’t-going-to-work of her life. 

Your one friend is Saddam Husseining the aux cord on the other side of the table. Things are getting testy because your other friend is incessant that he’s found a remix of Clarity and The Cops Theme Song that slaps harder than an Irish immigrant coming home to a bad meal from his wife pre-prohibition. Playing beer pong in college is a weird phenomenon. Not that there’s anything wrong with beer pong, but you’ve been playing it in basements with an Epstein asylum amount of light for six years. Beer Dye is too hard to execute in the dark; playing boom cup with a bunch of guys is sus, and you guys aren’t ready to drink serious enough to play flip cup- so you stick to the old classic. 

You win two games, but you lose one because Ryan wouldn’t stop calling elbows because his whore ex-girlfriend makes him feel the need to overcompensate, and he’s a baby back bitch. When the 2011 Nissan Leaf, led by Carla, a southern-black woman whose voice soothes you more than your cold Irish family ever could, arrives, your one friend with more clout on Linkedin than he has on Instagram begins asking her questions about her night. This is embarrassing for everyone, so you scroll Twitter for seven minutes until you arrive at your destination. A couple that just posted their one-year anniversary, even though they have both cheated on each other multiple times, is fighting outside. After entry, you see the girl wearing the birthday sash and pay respects to the poor son of a bitch that’s taking more pictures than an eight-year-old kid with ADHD who just discovered Photo Booth filters on his Dad’s iMac. 

After a girl with half a bottle of Pink Whitney takes out her phone and asks you who you think will get the drunkest tonight, you decide that it’s probably time to leave. When you get back to your place at 1:13 AM, you Snapchat text the girl you’ve been talking to (because that’s what Kings do) and turn on Don’t Look Up to see what the hype is all about. You wake up on the couch with a notification back from her not even five minutes after you passed out. Win some, lose most. 

Photo by Tobias Tullius on Unsplash

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Written by Bobby D'Angelo

TFM middle school penis game champion. Rutgers student.

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