Grade pint average
◊ Notes on attending school drunk:
My thanks to Owen, who engineered this by suggesting a couple pints in between classes. May the heavens rain down blessings and hot naked chicks on your head and cock, to distribute as you see fit. I should note that I am not fully drunk, just buzzed -- whatever two pints of Bass gets you on an empty stomach.
First off, it is a stroke of genius that there is a bar within walking distance from the De Anza campus. This is what may push a one-time event right into the threshold of ritual: proximity. I feel that many great events were a combination of luck, location and that one person with a gift for facilitation (or drinking, which is the case with Owen).
So:
The "talkative" phase was necessarily short, as Owen had to go to class and I had to acquire some props at Target for a newspaper layout. I struck off on my lonesome for the megastore, feeling both brave and hungry.
Warning: don't go to Target when you're buzzed. Especially don't go if you will be facing aisle after aisle of terrifying Valentine's Day merchandise. You will wander the aisles, trying to focus, absolutely sure that everyone is staring at you as you try to puzzle out row after row of mystifying red tinfoil and glitter and sequins and small plush animals bearing declartions of love.
It goes double if it's a Target with a fast-food joint attached. Only the promise of pizza at the newsroom tonight kept me from ordering a chicken quesadilla at the mini-Taco Bell -- that, and a mild fear of having to communicate with one of the drones at the counter.
I escaped with my goods, only to move quite rapidly to the "fantastically horny" phase when I want to mount the nearest moving object. This passed quickly, as I was walking alongside heavy traffic and the nearest moving objects were cars moving at a high enough velocity that I would have real problems trying to hump them.
I also got myself off five times earlier today, so the issue wasn't quite as pressing.
The most disconcerting part of the entire adventure was the Moment of Bathroom Sobriety. This usually takes place in the poorly-lit restroom of a sleazy bar, but this time it was in a restroom on campus.
The Moment of Bathroom Sobriety is usually spent assessing how drunk I am, how attractive the guy I'm there with is now that I'm a couple beers down and how the other girls at the dive bar are dressed compared to me. I emerged from the stall expecting a whole lot of leopard print, dyed-red hair, grommet belts, flared pants and Johnny Cash from a jukebox, but I saw only an empty sink and an acute lack of toilet paper scattered on the ground.
The data's in and the results are conclusive: De Anza is not a dive bar.
Now I must get to work.
There'd better be pizza in this for me.