My GBF Takes My V (Day) Card: The Way-Too-Built-Up Conclusion

If you haven’t been following along, here are Parts 1 and 2 of my Valentine’s Day mischief and mayhem, from a time in my life when (straight) boys were disposable, tequila and I were still tight like that, and I rarely wore panties*.

When we left off yesterday, I was unabashedly picking at my fallen soldier of a burrito on the main street of a college town (read: has seen more puke and urine than a a Britney Spears bodyguard). What can I say? I’m a classy lady.

After Thomas wrestled the spoiled TexMex from my grubby little hands (and pacified my wrath with half of his own), we once again set out on the very, very long trek home. I don’t think we would have made it across Franklin Street if it’d been in any other town- thank goodness, in Chapel Hill people are on the lookout for plastered dumb bitches tottering across the strip in four inch heels. It’s to be expected when all of the sorostitute- I mean sorority- houses are just a block or two away, after all.

Once across the street, we had only a couple hundred yards to go in order to get my drunk ass into bed. It should have been easy. It should have taken five minutes, tops. It should have been a simple case of dragging me down the sidewalk and knocking on my sorority house’s door (and then running away- I’m somebody else’s problem now!).

Come on, now. Y’all know me better than that.

I don’t know how it happened. To this day, I still can’t see how it’s possible. But it’s true.

I fell… (wait for it…)

into a ditch.

It couldn’t have been more than five feet deep, a simple dip in the ground between properties. We weren’t anywhere near it. But I managed to fall in, and I couldn’t get out. Thomas was laughing so hard that he was weakened, and when he tried to hoist me out…

I pulled him in too.

A small crowd gathered, gaping at us in awe as we scrambled, trying to get out of the veritable divot in the grass… and failing. Just when Thomas would get a hand or a foot up, I’d accidentally pull him back in. I have no idea how long this dog and pony show went on before someone actually took pity and helped us out, and I really can’t blame them. We must have looked absolutely redonculous… kind of like this.

Somehow, some way, a brave soul did eventually help us out, and we made it home without further incident. Unless I did something else so unspeakably horrible and humiliating he couldn’t bear to tell me about it, which is entirely possible. (And let’s just leave well enough alone, eh?)

Once in bed with the inevitable bucket beside me, I (predictably) passed. the eff. OUT. However, the retardulosity does not end there.

When I went to sleep, I was (obviously) wearing the clothes I went out in, shoes and all.

I woke up at 7am, to discover that I had somehow managed to change into a large T-shirt, and ONLY a large T-shirt. I mentally shrugged and went back to sleep.

At 10am, I woke up to find that I was wearing only a pair of Carolina gym shorts.

I said it before and I’ll say it again: I? Am one classy lady.

Trust.

*Actually, I guess some things never change. What? It’s TMI Thursday, apparently. Get with it.