That Time I Got Drunk And Threw Up On My President

Drunk, Threw Up on Prez

Every weekend, we find ourselves going out, getting hammered, and waking up filled with regret. Your drunken crimes range, of course, from minor indiscretions, such as eating your roommate’s leftovers, causing her to cry hysterically on the kitchen floor, to name-calling, to showing your Pikachu to a whole room, because…umm, you have no idea why. Regardless, you’ll eventually end up hugging it out and laughing about how stupid you are.

So, why then, do we judge and punish people based on their drunken mistakes? Well, I vote that we put a stop to that! (What do we want? A guilt-free hangover! When do we want it? NOW!) I’m talking to you, Standards. Because of one tiny drunken mistake, I had a black mark on my record, that could never be erased, unless my roommate took over standards and erased it for me, which she did, but that’s not the point. I could have been reminded for all of time of the stupid mistake I made so very long ago.

It was my last semester of freshman year and formal was just around the corner. Dress: check. Date: check. Group of pledge sisters whose soul mission in life is to fuck shit up: check. We arrived from our private pregame to the larger, more public pregame around 8pm to see that everyone was already drunk. Though I’d been sipping on my Crystal Light and vodka at home, the fact that no one really witnessed it made me feel like I’d missed out, ya know? If a girl takes shots in her apartment, and no one is there to see it, does she still get drunk? Yes, yes she does. But I still felt inadequate. I needed to find my big and get up to speed.

I spotted her giggling outside the restroom obnoxiously with my grandbig, and informed them that they needed to make room for their favorite new girl. I squeezed into the bathroom with them and stared at the flask in my grandbig’s hand — a beacon of hope. I grabbed it and immediately began chugging. My family was so impressed (and too drunk to be mad) that I finished the whole thing in one swig.

“That tasted like shit,” I spat.

“Well, it’s 110 proof. You don’t drink it for the taste.”

Well shit. This is surely the strongest thing I’ve ever had to drink. But, like, whatever. I had a bitchin’ tolerance (I thought). I’ll be fine. I stood up and then fell right back down, the start to a perfect night. My family helped me up and I walked out of the bathroom only to learn that the buses were leaving. The ride to formal was miserable. The alcohol had gotten to me, and I considered going to the back of the bus to pee on the floor, before my boyfriend stopped me. When Freud first coined the term “penis envy,” he probably didn’t ever think it would be used to describe the feelings a drunk girl had when she watched her boyfriend take her empty water bottle, piss into it, and then throw it out the window, but it was more appropriate now than it had ever been in my life.

We hopped off the bus, and I beelined it toward the restroom, which, to no one’s surprise, was overrun by my sorority sisters whose bladders were as weak as mine. “Bradley,” I slurred, “let’s go look for another bathroom.”

To my surprise and delight, we found a second “Employees Only” restroom, and I dragged my boyfriend into it with me, because love is watching each other pee? After I’d finished, I erupted into a fit of giggles realizing that we were alone! It was like Christmas had come early, and so would we!

“You’re so damn hot,” I said. I kissed him and plopped down to my knees. He was afraid we’d get caught, but I was persistent. I unzipped his pants, and wouldn’t you know it, my president walked in.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” she bellowed. I cringed as my boyfriend tried to pull his pants back up. “Get out. You will be meeting with Standards tomorrow before chapter.”

I started to cry. My makeup ran down my face, and a knot formed in my stomach. It felt like I was going to puke. You’d think this would be fine, because I was in a bathroom, and there was a toilet within eyesight, but no. Instead I thought the appropriate receptacle for my vomit was my president’s new shoes. A pledge from Bradley’s fraternity came and drove us back to the fraternity house where we had an anti-formal, which turned out to be a great time.

Was it humiliating? Yes, a little. Do I think my one drunken mishap should have followed me around throughout my entire college career? Of course not! We were drunk, at our own formal, with my boyfriend. No one saw it happen, and honestly, aside from my president’s shoes, no one got hurt. I suffered two months social probation after that night and felt guilty every day of it. But the thing is, I shouldn’t have. I don’t regret that night at all, and I’d do it all over again. So what I propose to you, Standards Chairs of America, is to be less harsh with those who are not of sound mind, to be kind to wrongdoers, and to take mercy on the ladies who wear your letters! Greek life will be more fun — or at least more funny — if you do.

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I'm obsessed with alcohol, puppies, Lilly Pulitzer, Michael Kors, Diet PEPSI (you heard me, bitch), and Harry Potter. I diet constantly and I continuously hate my life for it. I think I'm fucking hilarious but my mom disagrees. I plan to graduate and get a big girl job someplace I can do web design (aka sit around on a computer and read Cosmo & TSM all day) while I get a Master's in psychology. Then I'll marry rich and die happy among my 50 dogs. Like my columns so I feel popular.

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