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We’re All Ashamed About What We’ve Done

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I’m gonna level with you guys. I’ve done some shit in this life I regret. At the time, everything seemed like a fantastic idea — each action of debauchery more powerful of a move than the last. But every fucking morning after, I wake up overwhelmed with shame and remorse for my activities the night before. I’m not really sure why there is such a disconnect between my nighttime and daytime personalities. It’s like I develop a sense of morality as I sleep. I realize that I cannot be alone in this cycle of remorse, so I have come to conclusion to air out some of my dirtiest laundry as an experiment. Maybe, by letting the world know about these shameful events, I’ll be absolved of some of the guilt.

A few years ago, while on spring break in Panama City Beach, my brothers and I devised a plan to give all the women we spoke to fake names under the guise that we were pornography producers. I went really deep with my backstory; I had a degree from Columbia film school and was intent on playing the “it’s not porn, it’s a social freedom movement angle.” I did not think it would work. Apparently, I completely underestimated the power of alcohol and drugs, because almost every woman we spoke to in PCB bought it. It got to the point where it was kind of sickening. We never filmed them of course, but by the time we let them in on the joke, they were all too invested in us to leave angrily.

We all ended up doing pretty well that spring break. We never did tell any of those girls our real names. I even kept the bullshit façade of me earning a film school degree up. Girls like that artsy kind of shit. The worst part was that I entered a contest to win Luke Bryan tickets under my fake name because a girl I was talking to wanted to win them. Well, guess what: I fucking won. When I went up to claim the tickets, they wanted to see my ID, which I couldn’t fucking show them because I didn’t have one. So here I was, standing next to a girl I didn’t know, telling the concert people my fake name without any proof. Luckily, I thought quickly to change my real name on Face Book to my fake name and tried to pass that off as positive ID. The fucking morons bought it and gave me the tickets. I then had the pleasure of staring at my fake porn producer’s name for the next half a year whenever I checked FB because they limit your name changes to one every six months. Now that I’m sober, I’m pretty fucking ashamed of that trip.

On a different spring break to Daytona Beach, my brothers and I stopped at the Wing House on the boardwalk to catch some March Madness games. My pledge brother who lived in Daytona originally introduced me to one of the waitresses who worked there. She was hot in a weird tattooed I’d do it once kind of way. Later, as a group of guys hyped up on coke and Jim Beam are prone to do, we visited one of the many eminent, grimy strip clubs that dot the Daytona strip. Some time into our visit, who should join us but the very same waitress from Wing House that I met earlier.

Well we hit it off and I ended up fucking her in a private room in the back of the club. Now that’s some shit to be proud of right? Banging a girl who isn’t a stripper in a strip club is worth some points? Wrong. I was later informed by my Daytona pledge brother that the waitress also worked as a stripper at the club in which we had set up shop. So, I had sex with a disgusting waitress/stripper in a tiny ass private room in the back of a gross Daytona strip club. God Damn it.

That’s it. I don’t need to be ashamed any more. It’s like confession, except I can’t get open hand slapped by an embarrassed priest here. I really fucking hope that this experiment was a success, though I don’t feel particularly better about either of the events listed above. Actually, I feel a shitload worse now that I see it all in writing. I think I should just go back to pounding well whiskey to numb my stifling regret. Yeah, that was probably the better plan anyway.

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Wooden hulled, three masted heavy frigate. Named by President George Washington.

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