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Your first weekend at college is an overwhelming experience. You suddenly have infinite freedom. You can do whatever you want. You can smoke alcohol and drink weed all day every day.
You wonder what you should do with this newfound freedom. Should you party? Should you sleep for 28 hours straight? Should you write a book about the inevitable collapse of Western Civilization?
That’s how I felt the first day I moved in on campus. I was chillin, nervous but excited to start this new chapter of my weird ass life. I was settling into my dorm, watching Netflix while hanging up my dozens of ‘What Would Yeezus Do?’ posters.
I met my roommate, and he seemed like a cool guy. We talked for a minute and got to know each other. I asked him the usual questions.
“Where you from?”
“What’s your major?”
“What’s your favorite Adam Sandler movie?”
(His answer was Jack and Jill though, which was a huge red flag)
He told me that he and his friends were going to this party at some apartment near campus, and that I should join them. I obviously jumped on the opportunity. It was a great chance to immediately meet some people and make friends. I literally didn’t know anyone yet.
I was very excited for this party, you guys. I didn’t know that I was about to have one of the most disgustingly horrific nights of my life.
I’ve had some terrible, traumatic experiences during my time on Earth so far. I’ve had loved ones pass away. I’ve been beaten to a bloody pulp to by bullies as a child. My ex-girlfriend once made me go to a Gavin Degraw concert.
But NOTHING could have prepared for the horrors I was about to endure.
A few hours later, his friends came over. They all seemed cool. I asked them all the usual questions.
“Where you from?”
“What’s your major?”
“what’s your favorite Adam Sandler movie?”
(They all said Jack and Jill, too. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!)
We start pre-gaming. His friend pulls out a little bottle of Fireball straight from the pocket of his jacket. He takes it out quickly like Bond taking out a gadget — he’s like an alcoholic 007. We start taking shots. I’m already buzzed.
A light bulb appears above my roommate’s head, as he randomly gets the bright idea that we should go grab a bite to eat before the shindig.
We decide to go to (TRIGGER WARNING: TACO BELL) Taco Bell.
We stumble to a Taco Bell and I get a few burritos. I immediately inhale them, not realizing until then how ungodly starving I was. I got a weak stomach and it started rumbling like a rabid animal. I naively decide to ignore it.
Fast forward to a little later. We get to the party. It’s packed and I’m having a jolly old time. At this point, I’m so drunk that my liver is filing divorce papers. I’m talking to a hot girl (at least I think it was a girl, but it might have been a pile of coats – the memory is fuzzy).
Music is blasting. “Backseat Freestyle” by Kendrick Lamar. I’m passionately singing along like the dorky piece of plain moldy white bread that I am. I’m jumping around and dancing like an autistic orangutan.
But then, my stomach rumbles again. An intense, earth shattering rumble. My wholesome fun shenanigans come to a grinding, screeching halt. There’s an 8.1 level earthquake destroying my intestines. I realize I need to get the bathroom ASAP.
I sprint to the restroom, but there’s a long line. Son of a spoiled cheesecake, this is fucking infuriating. I stand there in line and distract myself even though my burrito baby is on the verge on crowning. I feel the contractions and they’re painful.
I go on my phone and try to distract myself with Meek Mill’s tweets and YouTube videos of kittens on skateboards. I stand and wonder if I still have a chance to go home with that pile of coats later.
FINALLY, the bathroom is free. I get in, lock the door, sit down on the toilet and unload. There’s an unreal amount of substance coming out. I crapped so much, some of it was food that I hadn’t eaten yet. Tomorrow’s breakfast came out of my ass. Things shot out of me with intense velocity. Taco Bell burritos, tomorrow’s Cheerios, CVS receipts, and a Blu-Ray copy of Ghost Rider 2 for some reason.
After seemingly forever, I think my body is finally empty. I stand up and look down into the toilet bowl and it looks like a crime scene. I’ve seen every episode of Law & Order: SVU and this was like all of them combined. I was waiting for detective Ice T to come in and interrogate me.
I try to wipe. Every time I wipe my ass and I think I’m done, it’s like an infomercial that isn’t finished yet: “But wait, there’s more!”
On top of that, it’s all green. I don’t know why.
I finally finish wiping and I try to flush the toilet.
It starts overflowing. The water pours out of the toilet and spills onto the floor, seeming like it’d flood the room and I’ll drown to death. I look around and wonder what I can do to stop it.
I hear banging on the door. Nonstop knock knock knock. I hear angry voices.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN THERE? I NEED TO USE THE BATHROOM, TOO, ASSHOLE. IT’S THE ONLY PLACE THIS GIRL WILL BLOW ME.”
I have no idea what the fuck to do. This is terrifying and beyond humiliating. I realize I can’t let ANYONE I know I did this. I will take this secret to the grave!!!
I sprint out of the bathroom and sprint out of the party, embarrassed as fuck and nervous that someone will see what’s up. As I run away I hear someone yell, “The toilet is overflowing!”
I have an anxious internal monologue. “How the fuck am I gonna get away with this? I need to hire OJ Simpson’s lawyer.”
I Uber back to my dorm. I get a zillion texts from my roommate asking me where I am. I tell him I moved to Africa.
People carry guilt around with them all the time. Some murderers will never be caught. Some crimes will always be unsolved. People learn to bury their devious deeds deep, deep down.
But this is my tearful confession. I did it. I’m the one who clogged that toilet at that party, you guys. And I can admit it now that the statute of limitations has finally expired.
What a great start to the semester..