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Description
How to Successfully Ruin Your Weekend
Rrrrriiiiiiiinnng! The bell sounds at 2:50PM, signaling the end of your last Friday class and the beginning of the weekend. You gather your belongings and rush to catch up with your friends as everyone tumbles into the hallway, ready to zoom out of the parking lot into the real world. What plans do you have for your first night of freedom in five days? The best plans ever: you plan to join your amazing friends in a super beer bash.
As you speed home to get ready for your night, you think about your upcoming adventure. Will the cops bust the party? How many buckets will you fill with vomit? What regrets will you have in the morning, if you remember anything at all? The excitement of your possible future overwhelms you. You slip on your shortest cutoff jean skirt, fasten your pushup bra, squeeze into your lowest cut shirt, and slide on your highest ankle-breaking heels. Plastering your face with layers of foundation, you begin forming the perfect excuse to disappear from home for the night. You'll tell your parents you will spend the night at a friends. "It's chaperoned," you'll tell them. "Just girls," you'll tell them. You'll promise to be smart. You paint your eyes with black, and smother your lips with shining gloss. You curl your hair, calling your older brother to convince him to buy your ammunition for the night: vodka, wine coolers, Budlight, tequila. The list goes on and on as you deplete the atmosphere with aerosol glue. One last spray and you strut into the kitchen, smiling your sincerest smile.
You spin your web of lies around the blindly nodding flies, their eyes glazing over with how trustworthy, how honest, how responsible you've become. Then, you run out the door, driving to your friend's house to park for the night. The whole group rides out to the bottoms, where already the music pounds and alcohol flows freely. You grab your first bottle, your poison of choice, hard lemonade. You take a swig, joining your great friends around the blazing fire. Some genius throws the entire can of lighter fluid onto the bonfire. It explodes, nearly bursting the entire lawn into flames. As it calms, you look down at your now empty bottle. You toss it to the ground, yelling to some boy by the coolers to grab you another. You've been drinking for so long, you'll have to finish at least a 12 pack before you feel any effects. Don't worry: your liver is already hardening, your brain cells are drowning, and you are growing stupider every moment. At this rate, you won't remember the huge mistakes you'll make tonight tomorrow morning, but of course, many other people will. Rumors will spread like wildfire and you will live in infamy, just as you've always wanted.
As the night progresses, your vision blurs. Your inhibitions have scattered; your conscience has grown silent. Your freedom shows in your confident swagger. You stand on top of the world, invincible. You kiss strangers, dance like a stripper, and spill your deepest secrets to the biggest gossips you know. Your night couldn't get any better! Then the real fun begins: the pizza you downed with your latest can of beer climbs back up your throat, spewing onto the ground, but it's all good. Now you don't have to worry about the calories. You gulp down a glass of cherry vodka to rid your mouth of the taste of Italian sausage the second time around. The sound of your shrieks as you vomit attracts the attention of your more fortunate friends who laugh, snapping pictures as you wipe your face of the digested chunks, your eyes bloodshot and your hair now stringy and sweaty. You finish your vodka and enter the clubhouse, feeling much better now that you hold a bottle of tequila in your clammy hands.
A television show blares in the living room, your idols filling the screen with their truly important relationship issues and perfectly planned, admirable eating disorders. You sit down to enjoy the show, but suddenly you have to sprint to the bathroom to empty your stomach again. You wash your face, smudging your makeup, the eyeliner running in huge black smears down your cheeks, but by this point in the night it doesn't matter. No one can see straight anyway. Again, you rest on the couch, your surroundings growing fuzzier and fuzzier until the night goes black.
You wake in the morning with some stranger beside you, the bottle lying empty in your arms. As you struggle to stand, your headache nearly causes you to black out. Your head spins as you hobble to the door, searching for your driver. Pulling her off of another stranger, you drag her to the car, worrying about the time and hoping your parents haven't called your phone. You arrive home with regrettable pictures of your night posted all over Facebook and messages from worried friends and your betrayed boyfriend filling your inbox. Congratulations on another successful weekend.

Description
How to Successfully Ruin Your Weekend
Rrrrriiiiiiiinnng! The bell sounds at 2:50PM, signaling the end of your last Friday class and the beginning of the weekend. You gather your belongings and rush to catch up with your friends as everyone tumbles into the hallway, ready to zoom out of the parking lot into the real world. What plans do you have for your first night of freedom in five days? The best plans ever: you plan to join your amazing friends in a super beer bash.
As you speed home to get ready for your night, you think about your upcoming adventure. Will the cops bust the party? How many buckets will you fill with vomit? What regrets will you have in the morning, if you remember anything at all? The excitement of your possible future overwhelms you. You slip on your shortest cutoff jean skirt, fasten your pushup bra, squeeze into your lowest cut shirt, and slide on your highest ankle-breaking heels. Plastering your face with layers of foundation, you begin forming the perfect excuse to disappear from home for the night. You'll tell your parents you will spend the night at a friends. "It's chaperoned," you'll tell them. "Just girls," you'll tell them. You'll promise to be smart. You paint your eyes with black, and smother your lips with shining gloss. You curl your hair, calling your older brother to convince him to buy your ammunition for the night: vodka, wine coolers, Budlight, tequila. The list goes on and on as you deplete the atmosphere with aerosol glue. One last spray and you strut into the kitchen, smiling your sincerest smile.
You spin your web of lies around the blindly nodding flies, their eyes glazing over with how trustworthy, how honest, how responsible you've become. Then, you run out the door, driving to your friend's house to park for the night. The whole group rides out to the bottoms, where already the music pounds and alcohol flows freely. You grab your first bottle, your poison of choice, hard lemonade. You take a swig, joining your great friends around the blazing fire. Some genius throws the entire can of lighter fluid onto the bonfire. It explodes, nearly bursting the entire lawn into flames. As it calms, you look down at your now empty bottle. You toss it to the ground, yelling to some boy by the coolers to grab you another. You've been drinking for so long, you'll have to finish at least a 12 pack before you feel any effects. Don't worry: your liver is already hardening, your brain cells are drowning, and you are growing stupider every moment. At this rate, you won't remember the huge mistakes you'll make tonight tomorrow morning, but of course, many other people will. Rumors will spread like wildfire and you will live in infamy, just as you've always wanted.
As the night progresses, your vision blurs. Your inhibitions have scattered; your conscience has grown silent. Your freedom shows in your confident swagger. You stand on top of the world, invincible. You kiss strangers, dance like a stripper, and spill your deepest secrets to the biggest gossips you know. Your night couldn't get any better! Then the real fun begins: the pizza you downed with your latest can of beer climbs back up your throat, spewing onto the ground, but it's all good. Now you don't have to worry about the calories. You gulp down a glass of cherry vodka to rid your mouth of the taste of Italian sausage the second time around. The sound of your shrieks as you vomit attracts the attention of your more fortunate friends who laugh, snapping pictures as you wipe your face of the digested chunks, your eyes bloodshot and your hair now stringy and sweaty. You finish your vodka and enter the clubhouse, feeling much better now that you hold a bottle of tequila in your clammy hands.
A television show blares in the living room, your idols filling the screen with their truly important relationship issues and perfectly planned, admirable eating disorders. You sit down to enjoy the show, but suddenly you have to sprint to the bathroom to empty your stomach again. You wash your face, smudging your makeup, the eyeliner running in huge black smears down your cheeks, but by this point in the night it doesn't matter. No one can see straight anyway. Again, you rest on the couch, your surroundings growing fuzzier and fuzzier until the night goes black.
You wake in the morning with some stranger beside you, the bottle lying empty in your arms. As you struggle to stand, your headache nearly causes you to black out. Your head spins as you hobble to the door, searching for your driver. Pulling her off of another stranger, you drag her to the car, worrying about the time and hoping your parents haven't called your phone. You arrive home with regrettable pictures of your night posted all over Facebook and messages from worried friends and your betrayed boyfriend filling your inbox. Congratulations on another successful weekend.