Trying to Find the Juice In This Jungle

Eyes opened, head swimming. I'm still a bit drunk.

What happened last night?

Let's open the time portal we call drunken memory and try to figure it out.

I remember getting home from work. The call came - "Cameron" appears on the LED screen of my blackberry (shameless plug). All he says are two words: "Frat Party". I hang up and have approximately 30 minutes to get myself organized and present my hygiene in a manner beset of picking up copious amounts of women. I spent 25 playing video games.

We picked up Al and bought some pre-gaming material. Cheap vodka and powerade? Yes, please. Damn it all, I bought red powerade. It's only a matter of time before I get the red lip, destroying any chances I have of positive social interaction. Or, just maybe, this could be the cool "in" I need to go up and talk to chicks. They will all be so enthralled with my red upper lip that the conversation could only end up in excessive amounts of tonsel hockey. Yes, this could work.

We drive into Northeastern to meet up with Mui and his roommates. We then traverse across the barren tundra known as Boston, Massachusetts; a small price to pay for an occassion where there will be much drinking and dancing. 3 hours later and we're at the door, 5 bucks to get in. The toll is paid and I wander into the great halls of the Frat house.

This is where it gets hazy. Flashbacks will be my method of rememering the events that took place.

Sweet keg operation, lot of beer. I like beer. Beiruit table. The table is twice as long as other simple, primitive beirut tables. Bad people playing, please leave. We sign our names and head downstairs.

Loud music, lot of girls. People are starting to get tipsy, room divided like a awkward middle school dance still. I eye out some bitties that may catch my eye, they return the seductive gaze. She quickly averts her eyes with a roll. No, Bittie, I saw you. Don't try to hide it.

I keep sipping on the powerade, letting the alcohol run its course. People are dancing now, but I am nowhere near enough drunk yet to show off my incredible dancing skills.

Starting to get hazier, a flash here and there of what happened. Dancing. Alot of dancing. Who am I dancing with? Ah, a ebony queen. My how good you at dancing. How long did we dance? 10 minutes, 20 minutes? You eventually pull away. What's that? You are going to get on the counter to join the five other ladies up there dancing away in a narcisistic fashion where guys like me wish they could be? Sure, let me rendevous with friends.

Al is visibly drunk. The jungle juice is taking its toll. John is dancing with a chick. Time to approach him with a comment about how is girlfriend keeps calling me. No, that would be a sin, let me keep dancing.

Benny Bennasi's Satisfaction starts playing. I like this song. John and I spy some ladies. Yes, let's dance.

Song over, they jump on the table for the next. "Perhaps you should join them, dear friend" John says. I agree and jump up. We dance, John took picture. I fall off, John took picture. I brush myself off, don't worry ladies, I'm just getting started.

Crowd starting to thin out. More and more awkward to dance. Let me grab a smoke. Hey, you girls smoke too? Cool, lets talk.

Grabbing coats. Leaving time. As leaving, I hear a group of girls talking and laughing amongst each other: "Did you see that skinny kid with glasses? Yeah, the kid with the kool aid lip. He looked like he sucked off the kool aid man! Maybe that's who taught him to dance! Ahahahaha!" Was that me?

Talk to people on walk home. Introduce Al to everybody on the street as Ping. Yeah, it makes me laugh for some reason.

"Hey baby, I bet you like a man who knows how to program" I yell out to random strangers on the street. No Responses, muffled laughs.

Get home. Black.