You get a text from a sister asking if you’re free Saturday night. Other than your usual drinking escapades and going-out routine, you don’t really have anything going on, so you’re curious as to what she has planned. Before you know it, you’ve been set up for a blind date at some fraternity’s date party. This isn’t one of your go-to frats. This isn’t even one of your back-up frats. So other than the sister that just set you up, you are fairly confident that you will know no one at this date function. Set-up sister gives you his number, which you save in your phone, but then you refuse to text him. In an attempt to ensure you’re not about to spend the evening with a future serial killer, you immediately go stalk his Facebook for the next half hour, only to find that he is one of those weirdos that keeps a very limited profile available to the public. You’re filled with curiosity, but you’re not about to send him a friend request.
As the date party draws nearer, your date finally texts you. Considering the message you get, you find little reason to wonder why he needed to be set up in the first place. He probably thinks he’s one hell of a smooth player, but all you see is how truly socially inept this boy is.
“Hey it’s _______. If you want to meet me at the house around 6 to pregame, that would be cool.”
At first, you’re confused. If you want to come, it would be cool? What boy in his right mind would send that to you?
After you’ve settled from your initial shock, you come to your senses and become enraged at the fact that he isn’t offering to pick you up. You have to figure out where this random fraternity house is all by yourself. He didn’t even have the decency to ask what kind of alcohol you’d like, and you’ll be damned if you have to drink beer or whiskey or whatever it is that boys like even though it has a lot of calories. Not wanting to seem like a total bitch before you’ve even met him, you reply with a pretty neutral “Great can’t wait!” text. Maybe the exclamation mark was too much, but you don’t really care what he thinks.
When the big day finally arrives, you spend the typical two hours getting ready to make sure you look perfect. Luckily, you find out from your sister that apparently everyone is meeting at the house, and you have not been abandoned by your date. While you are reminded of why you never visit this particular fraternity, you’re actually in a decent mood when you and your sister arrive there together. When you get inside, you look around the room and your anxieties are realized. You don’t know a soul, so you decide it might be a good night to get on the nearest blackout train to Shamble City. You rush to the nearest pledge serving punch and start knocking it back as your sister introduces you to people.
Finally, she gets around to introducing you to your date. He’s on the shorter side, not bad-looking, but not your type. He assumes your sorority sister has been talking him up, and that you have a decent background knowledge about the guy. Wrong. Other than a failed social media creep sesh, you don’t know a thing about him. He offers you shots (smart man) and then pours you a drink. Conversation isn’t bad, but it’s still a little awkward. You make up for it by downing your drink as quickly and discreetly as possible while nodding along to whatever he’s saying when he starts talking. The nice thing about him is that he doesn’t know you, so naturally you get to talk about yourself most of the time. By the time the pregame is over, you’re hammered after drinking hard liquor for almost an hour and a half.
Your date’s pledge class has elected to go the hibachi route. He’s really warmed up to drunk you, and in his obvious infatuation, he insists that you order whatever you want. Naturally, drunk you orders the most expensive thing on the menu along with a few cocktails. You hardly touch your food and you Saki bomb like your life depends on it. The more booze you consume, the more you really start to like your date and you’re really excited to be here with him, despite the fact that throughout the event, you text the boy you’ve been hooking up with.
Details start to get blurry as you approach blackout. After dinner, you take a cab to the venue where you and your date proceed to socialize and swing dance. Eventually you two starting making out, and he’s so abysmal that you briefly come to your senses and consider making a break for it. However, that brief moment of clarity quickly dissipates after another drink and your back to your MO and grind.
Back at his place, you enter his room where he drops his pants and locks the door. In your drunken stupor, you assume he is trying to hold you hostage, so you dart out of there, leaving him alone and confused. You text the boy you’re hooking up with to come get you, and spend the remainder of your night with his arms around you, and your legs around him, thankful you won’t be adding a mediocre-looking guy to your number.
In the morning, you wake up to a bunch of angry texts from your date, trying to figure out what was going on and where you went. Texts of a similar nature will continue for the next couple of weeks, but you ignore them, and actively try to avoid ever being within 100 yards of him. You swear to yourself you’ll never go on a blind set-up again, until six months from now when you need to beg a sister to set you up for your own formal in a last ditch effort. Whatever.