Friday, January 16, 2009

January 16, 2009

It is silent in my room. From my ever-cracked window I hear keys jangle as someone approaches a car in the parking lot outside. I am pleased to be relieved from hearing the same girls wailing karaoke-style in the room connected to mine by air vent. They have been singing the same songs from High School Musical over and over again every day, prompting my roommate and I to stand on chairs, reach the vent with our mouths, and scream, ladylike as possible, "SHUT THE FUCK UP, MOTHERFUCKERS!" We have discovered that the air vent allowing obnoxious, suicide-inducing sound into our rooms is, in fact, one-way. No matter how offensive we become, the women continue to sing run-on lyrics: "We're all in this together / Once we know / That we are / We're all stars / And we see that / We're all in this together / And it shows / When we stand / Hand in hand / Make our dreams come true."

The note hit upon reaching "true" is held to an excruciating length, allowing for the wobble and crash of the singers' tone there at the end.

Six hours later, I go to the Delt house with my roommate and her boyfriend. The house is already smoky. It's nearing rush time and propsective pledges are milling around, trying to decide which friend group they feel like aligning their personalities with in a public, greek-lettered manner. A puppy is atop the pool table struggling to open his furry mouth wide enough to hold the 7 ball. The women and men gathered 'round egg him on: "Get it! Get it!"

Upstairs a trash can in the closet is full of what is termed "Delt punch." Though the recipe is nearly always different, the result is definitely always the same: it gets you fucked up. This version of the infamous liquid is a deep purple hue. I dip a plastic cup in. I taste cheap vodka. "And PGA," a brother tells me as I try to identify the liquor combination, "and a handle of rum."

Two hours later and I'm not even feeling the three cups of Dimetap-like liquid I have consumed. I sit on the floor in the penthouse, listening to half-drunk, coked out women joke: "Sorry for partying," elongating every syllable Valley Girl-style, "So sorry for partying." The room dissolves into wild laughter. Cigarettes ash themselves on the carpet.

Downstairs there is music. Boys and guitars and popular tunes we all know but can't recall how or when or why. A girl in a puffy yellow jacket and furry boots brings her face close to mine, here bangs falling over wide-open eyes. She grabs my hands in hers. "Don't just stand there!" she commands, "Dance!" I try to, I really do. The song seems endless as I try to force some sort of artificially enthusiastic rhythm on my limbs. Music stops for a brief period, the girl collapses on an unsuspecting guy whose lit cigarette, reacting, rakes the back of another kid's jacket. I take this as my cue.

As I descend the frozen porch steps I catch three men taking respective pisses. One right, one left, one near my car ahead. I wait for the lattermost pisser to zip his fly. I approach my car, climb in, peel out.

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