The Walk Of Shame: A Documentary


The sun light creeped in through the dirty window, barely seeping in through the blinds. My eyes open and immediately look for the clock. 8am. Thank God, it’s still somewhat early. I look around and slowly spot my clothes in a heap on the floor, next to a crushed natty and a pair of men’s Sperrys. I slide out of bed and get dressed, quickly and quietly. Last night’s mistake rolls over and yawns. I freeze and hold my breath as he adjusts and falls back asleep. I slip my head out the door and look around to see that all the other doors on the hall are closed. There’s an eery silence in the house, and I am dying to slip the fuck out of this joint unnoticed. I tiptoe out of the door and start a light jog down into the living room. The morning light shows the mess of last night, and as I scan the room for any sign of life, I realize that it’s completely empty. My head is telling me to hit the stairs and go out through a more secluded exit, just in case, but my body panics and I head towards the front door.

I swing open the heavy door and slow my jog down, walking across the lawn. The combination of the cool breeze and the wet dew from the grass dripping onto my toes slowly wakes me up. The row is unusually peaceful in the early mornings, and I would almost find the view scenic, if it didn’t reek of flat beer and stale vomit. I begin the all-too familiar trek back to my room. My feet leave wet footprints on the crisp sidewalk as my headache sets in and I begin to recall random memories from the previous night. Oh man, I definitely remember climbing the steps to his room, and laughing at some of his stupid jokes… did we listen to John Mayer for a little bit? Dammit, I’m way too easily wooed. If that kid had put on Jason Mraz, I probably would’ve lost my shit and agreed to try butt stuff. I stop before crossing the street and watch a truck roll past.

I’m still in my ripped jeans, which is kind of fitting considering how depressingly ratchet I feel. One hand is clutching my dead phone and the other is carrying my shoes, as my sandal strap ripped last night. That’s the last time I wear Tori Burch to a frat house. At this point I’m starting to realize that I am literally a walking cliche. I avoid eye contact as a few more cars pass. One of them offers a honk, probably to taunt my misery. I lazily hold up a middle finger, staring straight ahead and trying to act like I’m not dying for a Pedialyte and a nap. I glance down at my blank phone screen and see my reflection: make-up is barely in tact, hair could use some brushing, but other than that, it’s not too bad…. holy shit, there is a GIANT HICKEY on the side of my neck. What is this, high school? Fucking Ted, what amateur. Or was his name Tim? Like I give a shit.

As I approach my building, I lightly jog though the doors, keeping my head on a swivel. I hop on the elevator and repeatedly press the close door button to assure that I’ll be alone. Man, I wish I had this same mindset last night. Before I know it, I’m walking into my room as my roommate bombards me with questions. We laugh about the shitshows we both experienced last night, and I feel better as I pull on an oversized hoodie. I place my phone on the charger and head to the bathroom to wash last night off my face. When I come back I’m about ready to climb into bed when I hear my phone buzz. There’s a message that reads:

“Hey, did you want a ride?”

This featured image is a stock photo from our database. The people photographed are not in any way associated with the story.

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