After a relationship ends there is always that period of time afterward that is typified by two types of behavior: Either staying in depressed with a pint of ice cream and a stack of movies, or going out hardcore, slutting yourself out like it's your job. Being a normal college student I of course chose the latter.
I got over the shock of seeing the Mardi Gras Menace out on Thursday, dancing and making out with someone else, when I realized that texting "Fuck Urself" to him might not necessarily have been the high road. I resolved to forget about him and cut loose for the rest of the weekend.
On Friday I attended a party wearing only booty shorts, knee-length socks and sneakers. I was ready. After completing my sixth successful keg stand, I figured it was time to hit the dance floor. It was perfect timing, because the second I stepped into the room, Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone" began to blast, which is every girl's and gay man's post-breakup anthem. When it transitioned into the Venga Boys, I knew I was going to have a good time. Putting my theory that the Electric Slide can be performed to every song into practice, I led the dance with four other partygoers to "We Like to Party."
My dancing must have been incredible, because shortly afterward a female partier flung her arms around me and told me how much she enjoyed my column. She confessed that she hoped to make it in one day. I laughed and thanked her for the compliment, but she was already pulling me upstairs.
She rushed me into the bathroom and began to make out with me. I wasn't sure what to do next. I'm not straight, but she was a good kisser. I thought about what my good friend from Rome often repeated: "Just let it happen." I returned to the party with my booty shorts on backward. I did one farewell funnel and stumbled home.
The fog my mind was in on Saturday made it easy to forget the events of the previous night. I spent the day recuperating so I would have the energy to hit the town that night. The event was a birthday party at Blue Gin for one of my best friends; just a small intimate gathering with a couple hundred of his closest friends and family. The champagne flowed like water and there were vodka and Red Bulls in every other hand. It was heaven. Although I wore a shirt this time, it was unbuttoned about halfway down my chest so that I could make it clear to the copious amount of boys in attendance that I was available - and hopefully stress to the ladies that I was uninterested.
I danced on tables. I danced on chairs. I danced in a circle while people clapped, and then I danced on the bar while everyone clapped. At some point I probably lost my shirt. Guys passed me drinks and slipped their arms around my waist, but then I realized something. I really wasn't ready to be with anyone else.
I needed time to myself; though I felt alone lifted above the keg, or in the middle of the dance floor, I obviously wasn't. I grabbed my friend and we headed for the door.
We hopped in a cab and I let out a great sigh of relief that I had survived another weekend. I was kind of relieved to be going home alone. Our cab driver was a rather tall white woman who kept glancing back at my friend and I. She proceeded to tell us her about her life as a transvestite school bus driver by day and cab driver by night. She had driven 18-wheelers across the country and tractors in the Great Plains. She drove cattle on a ranch and a fire truck in New England.
She was quite the inspiration for perseverance. If she could drive more than a dozen different vehicles in every region of the U.S. and hold the title "Ms. Drag Dakota," then surely there was hope that I could make a relationship work for more than three weeks. Just maybe not right now.
We pulled onto campus and ran up to our dorm. As she pulled away we waved and shouted, "Goodnight Ms. APRIL FOOLS!"
Ultimately, there are elements of truth and fiction in this story. There is truth in every joke, and like everything in life, sometimes it is hard to tell where the truth ends and the lies begin.
