Sometimes, all a girl needs is to have a 23-year-old guy to tell you that he thought you were 19…even if he may have been lying. But then 45 minutes, to get carded for cigarettes.
I was starting to feel old. Boring. Uninspired. I had been spending the majority of my time at work or doing homework and stressing out about the move. Friday night, D decided that, to fix my mood, a cookout was in order. I was a little irritated about having to drive into town to hang out, but I felt good about seeing D and Ad Rock. And I felt good about getting out of my mess of an apartment and hanging out with people. People who, after three beers, tell great stories and bring me so close to the point of peeing my pants that I just couldn’t resist. There was wine, there was vodka, there was a reenactment of a conversation that Rack had with my mom that went like this:
Mom: She was about five feet tall and she was having an eleven-pound baby and she was telling the doctor that she couldn’t have a C-section because she was deathly afraid of needles. She was freaking out about it.
Rack: Did you tell her it would just be a little prick, just like how she got pregnant?
The look on my mom’s face was priceless, seeing as she has known Rack since I was 15 and she had never really had a conversation with him. After the few intense seconds of shock wore off, she laughed, but I couldn’t believe my ears. And when we reenacted the conversation for D and the crew, R, who was listening all the way from the bathroom, yelped and giggled until she came out exclaiming, “Just a little prick!!!” I love drunk R. And for those of you who underestimate my power of peer pressure….suck it! I rock! I made her do two shots and run around screaming about a little prick for 2 hours! HA!
After all the debauchery ended, I decided that I should go home and, since it was the middle of the night, I thought I should stop and get some really fattening, disgusting food to absorb all of the vodka and the beer even though I wasn’t buzzed anymore. A funny thing happens at 2:30 on Sunday morning in the drive through. You meet strange boys from FSU who are trying to walk through the drive through. They will have tried this before and they will know that they can’t get away with it and then they will ask you to order their food. If you’re very lucky, you will sit in the drive through with them for an hour while they talk shit about each other’s moms and thank you for being so kind to order for them so that they didn’t have to go hungry. I have to be honest, by the time that I got the food, I didn’t want it anymore. But I was obligated to the strange frat boys to follow through. After the driver of the car ahead of me had become hysterical and started screaming, “I’m fucking hungry!” out of his window, and I had dropped the boys off on the corner, they insisted on taking me out to lunch today. I turned them down. An hour of frat boys is quite enough for me. Even if they thought I was nineteen.
“Awwwe, come on! Have lunch tomorrow! What…you have a boyfriend, don’t you? Damn…he would kill you about now huh?”
“Actually, no…I don’t have a boyfriend.”
That felt weird to say…but holy crap, it’s true!