"It's like trimming the hedges."
Phoenix is what I like to call a “Lesbian Town”. Not because we’re all wearing strap-ons, but because Phoenix is beyond boring if you’re under 21 and have intelligent friends. It’s not our fault we drink two beers and call ourselves drunk or go to Ihop at 2 AM for a good time; it’s just that, well, Ihop is the only thing open, and our friend works there, so everyone wins.
Kato and I decided to forgo aimless driving and sex shops for the third day in a row this holiday weekend when we received an invite from a friend, unfortunately still in high school, having a party.
“Uh… is there alcohol?” Kato whispered to me while I was calling for directions, “Ask if there’s any alcohol left.”
“Some,” my friend admitted over the phone.
“Who’s drunk?” I asked, “Is anyone drunk?”
There was a slight pause, “Well, I am.”
I didn’t want to ruin it for her or anything, but I could still understand her.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she giggled.
“Huh. Go figure.”
Kato nudged me and jokingly demanded I “ask if there’s gonna be coke”.
I covered up the mouthpiece of the phone, “These are IB students,” I explained to him, “They will think you mean the soda.”
Naturally, we got lost along the way, and I had to call our mutual college friend Harvard to get us to the party.
“Where is it?” I asked Harvard over the phone. We were pretty fucking lost.
“The address is 911,” he answered. I thought he was joking.
“911?” I questioned.
“Yes, as in, “help me. I’m dying”.
I hung up, “Poor Harvard,” I said to Kato, “He wants us to get there soon.”
When we arrived, the address really was 911 and Harvard was taking an emo stance and lying on the carpet of the living room with sunglasses on.
The first words out of his mouth were, “I’m not drunk.”
Photo by: T.S. House
No one was, but they all thought they were. Kato and I sashayed around the living room, parading our grand arrival, and I motioned to the girl sleeping on the couch.
The host of the party explained, “She passed out.”
“After how many beers?”
“Uh, two?” she guessed.
Kato snapped a picture and then turned to me, “Tell me we weren’t like this,” he said as he adjusted his glasses. “We weren’t like this… were we?”
I thought back to high school. The 2005 graduates were known collectively and, perhaps affectionately, as “The Drunk Class” despite recent claims that “the class before us drank way more.” I agree, but as I pointed out, they hid it better.
Kato wasn’t the only one taking Kodak moments, I spent many a party sober and taking movies and pictures to post later for faculty to find. One party stands out in particular. Our in house Russian drank enough for ten men and in her vodka-blurred sphere of influence, thought it was hysterical when she and her equally drunk posse, soaked their pants more than once over the course of the evening with their own urine.
Then they did sit-ups to burn off the calories from the alcohol. Always thinking those IB kids. No one had sex that night, but I held a lot of hair in the bathroom and helped a good friend pull up his pants after he serenaded the crowd with a slurred song.
“Can’t you do it yourself?” I asked after he dragged himself over to the couch. I was trying not to look at the genitalia sliding out of his boxers.
He moaned, drunk out of his mind, and mumbled something about raspberries.
“I need you to do this,” he whispered before falling asleep completely exposed.
Kato snapped another pictures as I watched our host giggle and run around completely lucid.
“No,” I told him, “We were never like this.”
Quote of the day:
“So, are you happy to be home for Thanksgiving?”
- Taylor, taking another stab at the fact that I live in Phoenix.
Kato and I decided to forgo aimless driving and sex shops for the third day in a row this holiday weekend when we received an invite from a friend, unfortunately still in high school, having a party.
“Uh… is there alcohol?” Kato whispered to me while I was calling for directions, “Ask if there’s any alcohol left.”
“Some,” my friend admitted over the phone.
“Who’s drunk?” I asked, “Is anyone drunk?”
There was a slight pause, “Well, I am.”
I didn’t want to ruin it for her or anything, but I could still understand her.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she giggled.
“Huh. Go figure.”
Kato nudged me and jokingly demanded I “ask if there’s gonna be coke”.
I covered up the mouthpiece of the phone, “These are IB students,” I explained to him, “They will think you mean the soda.”
Naturally, we got lost along the way, and I had to call our mutual college friend Harvard to get us to the party.
“Where is it?” I asked Harvard over the phone. We were pretty fucking lost.
“The address is 911,” he answered. I thought he was joking.
“911?” I questioned.
“Yes, as in, “help me. I’m dying”.
I hung up, “Poor Harvard,” I said to Kato, “He wants us to get there soon.”
When we arrived, the address really was 911 and Harvard was taking an emo stance and lying on the carpet of the living room with sunglasses on.
The first words out of his mouth were, “I’m not drunk.”
Photo by: T.S. HouseNo one was, but they all thought they were. Kato and I sashayed around the living room, parading our grand arrival, and I motioned to the girl sleeping on the couch.
The host of the party explained, “She passed out.”
“After how many beers?”
“Uh, two?” she guessed.
Kato snapped a picture and then turned to me, “Tell me we weren’t like this,” he said as he adjusted his glasses. “We weren’t like this… were we?”
I thought back to high school. The 2005 graduates were known collectively and, perhaps affectionately, as “The Drunk Class” despite recent claims that “the class before us drank way more.” I agree, but as I pointed out, they hid it better.
Kato wasn’t the only one taking Kodak moments, I spent many a party sober and taking movies and pictures to post later for faculty to find. One party stands out in particular. Our in house Russian drank enough for ten men and in her vodka-blurred sphere of influence, thought it was hysterical when she and her equally drunk posse, soaked their pants more than once over the course of the evening with their own urine.
Then they did sit-ups to burn off the calories from the alcohol. Always thinking those IB kids. No one had sex that night, but I held a lot of hair in the bathroom and helped a good friend pull up his pants after he serenaded the crowd with a slurred song.
“Can’t you do it yourself?” I asked after he dragged himself over to the couch. I was trying not to look at the genitalia sliding out of his boxers.
He moaned, drunk out of his mind, and mumbled something about raspberries.
“I need you to do this,” he whispered before falling asleep completely exposed.
Kato snapped another pictures as I watched our host giggle and run around completely lucid.
“No,” I told him, “We were never like this.”
Quote of the day:
“So, are you happy to be home for Thanksgiving?”
- Taylor, taking another stab at the fact that I live in Phoenix.
