Alcohol consumption continues to plague the college campus on which I live, but this time I must admit that I partook in the joys of this mind-numbing liquid. I decided to accompany my roommate to a party, at which I had a few beers, and two cups of punch, which must have been spiked with anthrax, because I soon realized that my glasses no longer helped me see correctly, and that climbing the stairs was a daunting adventure. After finding a wall kind enough to hold up my body, an unbelievably drunk girl I new from one of my classes recognized me, and yelled “Oh my God, Walter,” and then proceeded to sloppily hug me. Immediately after this she stumbled up to a few more people to do the same. I was still trying to regain the ability to walk in a semi-straight line, when the very same girl walked by again, saw me, and went through the above mentioned procedure once again. A couple of minutes later I decided to risk a quick exit, and as I was doing so the girl saw me again, re-recognized me, yelled, hugged, and walked away. The night went on, and I continued to fail to leave the party, and although that angered me, I was put in a good mood when by the end of the night I realized that the girl had recognized me 15 times that night, each time, the very first time for her.
I eventually made my way back to my dorm, and when I entered my room I found a note written on printer paper in squiggly pen markings resting on top of my keyboard, which said, “You can’t have sex on your bed,” and was signed “Emily and Anne.” I have no idea who Emily of Anne are, but I intend to find out, and when I find them I intend on asking them why I can’t have sex in my bed, and if I could instead have sex in their bed…while they’re both in it.