A story from a sexual or drunken escapade:
The first time I got seriously drunk, I was 15, I had recently been dumped by my first girlfriend, and all I wanted to do was write mopey songs and kiss her one more time.
It was New Year’s Eve and I went to my first teenager-y party. There were a lot of people I didn’t know, hanging out in a basement, drinking vodka and playing foosball. I didn’t really fit in, but I tried.
I drank more than anyone else there, despite being the biggest lightweight of anyone there. I couldn’t walk straight, I slurred my words, I laughed a lot. When a girl started playing and singing Colbie Callait’s “Bubbly” (this being the first time I’d ever heard the song), I sat and stared, mesmerized, and listened to the whole performance; everything felt cosmic and relevant to my plight.
At midnight, we drank champagne and then ran out into the snow. A few cars drove by and I lifted my dress and flashed them my bare breasts. This felt strangely therapeutic and cathartic, a powerful but silent fuck-you to the girl who had bruised my heart. Some anonymous drivers were now seeing what she wouldn’t get to see. Ha, ha, ha.
At some point after that, I realized I wasn’t wearing any shoes, and there was a lot of snow on the ground, and my socks were soaked and freezing. I stumbled back into my friend’s house, disoriented and drowsy and free.
In the morning I woke up with a hangover and atrociously messy hair. Some people were watching Superbad in the next room, so I joined them, having never seen it before. It was good. I didn’t regret any of the previous night’s events, but I never did anything like that again.