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The Worst Formal Story You’ve Ever Read

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The Worst Formal Story You've Ever Read

It was the winter semi-formal of my freshman year when I had just been initiated into my chapter. With pledgeship taking up almost all of my time, I had yet to lock down any sort of date. Was I supposed to go into desperate mode and send one mass text that simply contained the question “formal?” to every single girl in my phone, regardless of their location? Nah, I don’t play those kind of games. See, I had a ringer in my back pocket — the daughter of my dad’s partner at his firm. Jamie was a year older than me and was a fine member of Kappa. She was always fond of me, but fearing any sort of repercussion that would hurt Dad (and subsequently any access I had to his bank account), I kept her at bay. With all other options exhausted, I hit her up asking if she’d go with me. Five seconds later, I received an ecstatic “yes!” with one thousand emojis.

The plan was for a couple of my pledge brothers and our dates to get dinner and then head to the house to pre-game. I picked Jamie up a casual 30 minutes later than I told her because I had gotten caught up watching the Big 12 Championship and drinking on someone’s couch. Despite her obvious disdain for me being late, she was looking good, real good, in a tight, white dress that showed off just enough of her cleavage to know what’s there, and just enough to keep it mysterious. She clearly had put more effort into her looks than I had that night. And off we went to dinner and the pre-game.

Once we arrived, we all began to hit the bottle, and hit it hard. From margaritas to Kraken, the alcohol was flowing. Since I was young, dumb, and full of rum, I brought up the idea of playing margarita pong, which earned a round of applause from the rest of the crew. Fuck. It only took a few rounds before the margarita stuff was gone, and I was on the hunt for something, anything, that we could pour in our cups. I found a hidden gem in my big brother’s room: a box of Franzia. “Jackpot!” I thought to myself as I made my way back to our party room. After a few slaps of the bag and games of pong, I was done. My mind was gone, and there was no coming back. Inexplicably, we made it to the hotel ballroom for the actual formal where we continued to drink heavily. My drunken bravado kicked in when I dragged Jamie onto the dance floor.

I had no control over any brain functions at that moment on the floor. All of the alcohol I had consumed had taken over my body. The dance moves, the shameless titty grab during pictures, and what was about to happen next can all be attributed to margarita and Franzia. Deep down I had felt something brewing in my stomach. As we drunkenly swayed to the music, grinding our bodies against each other, we began to make out pretty heavily on the dance floor. Like the calm before the storm, all my worries were gone, and I didn’t think about it. That was until I had to blow.

A flood of red liquid poured out of my mouth and into hers at speeds that would make Old Faithful look like a drinking fountain. Naturally, this caused her to begin to puke out her own remnants of margarita, Franzia, and crappy Italian food. When I was done, I looked up, hoping to find a consoling soul to help nurse me back to health, but what I found was the spiteful eyes of the devil. The dress was ruined, her hair was going to need at least four or five good washings, and more importantly, I probably wasn’t getting laid that night.

Jamie stormed out of the hotel ballroom, infuriated and extremely distraught. I begrudgingly went after her, because, after all, I did just yack a Franzia/margarita slush into her mouth and all over her body. I found her crying outside on a bench — typical. After earning myself an earful of screeching and yelling, I hailed a cab to take her home, hoping to rebuild any chance I had. The ride back went over smoothly, where I sweet talked my way into her house, where we cleaned up, sat on her couch, and began to make out again. Just like Dikembe Mutombo would swat away shots, my stomach told me “oh no, no, no,” and exploded once again, this time all over her and her couch. After wiping my mouth off, I looked up with a sheepish grin and said, “At least I didn’t get it in your mouth this time.”

“GET OUT AND GET OUT NOW!” she yelled.

As I walked out of her house, slightly ashamed at my actions, I turned to her and asked her — what are, to this day, the last words I’ve spoken to her — “So, you wanna maybe just bang it out?”

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The Therapist

Not a licensed therapist, but that doesn't stop me anyway.

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