There was that one Freshman girl on my floor at University. You know the one. She came from a very conservative family. The kind of family that enforced a curfew up until her graduation. Threatened to kick her out of the house for "going out with boys." Freaked out to learn that she wanted to go to school a whole four hundred miles away.
You know the girl. She called home dutifully for awhile. Every night at 7:00 she was there, hogging the downstairs phone emitting platitudes like "No, mother. No. I promise. No. I've been really good."
But the environment catches up with her. Sure, she swore not to let "the influence of evil" get to her. She made it all about the opportunity to advance herself. To be the one who "accomplished something" in the family. But, by week six, only a few short class cycles after orientation, someone brings a big box of wine upstairs and the game is up.
The sad tale continues, after the jump.
She resisted at first. That wasn't her thing. And the other girls nodded in solidarity and support. "We really respect that, totally respect that," they chimed together as they sipped some alienesque pinkish sludge from their glasses. Wind chimed. Out of sync. Different tones all scattered randomly. All trying to talk on top of each other, abortively stopping to be "polite" and not interrupt but unable to hold the fiction of egalitarianism for long (especially after several glasses of "Peach Blush.") But it wasn't another hour after that when the alcohol, that sweet, noxious boxed version thereof, took hold and they began to taunt, and tease. You didn't care, because that guy you'd been crushing on for weeks was talking to you. You looked the other way because that lecture on the perils of peer pressure was not convenient to remember at the time. Plus, you were kind of getting sick from the "Sun Peak Peach" you couldn't stop drinking.
Who could be unhappy, aside from the lead weight in your stomach? It was the celebration after the first home game victory, after all. Everyone spoke as a single voice. What could go wrong? The team was going to the state championships, for sure. And the crew team was great this year. She starts to drink. And she has a lot of catching up to do. After that first intoxicating, firewall breaking sip, she starts to drink with a vengeance.
There is a lot of buoyancy. She floats up quickly at first. Her system unused to the riotous peer pressure. It goes swimmingly. She's one of the gals. Then, the inflection point.
Usually, in naive drinkers, its about the eighth cup of forfeited, boxed wine. It only takes her six. But, then, she's drinking out of the big, red plastic Solo cups. So that's not surprising. You don't drink it like milk, sweetheart. Or do you?
The night has been trending down since after the first hour. But now it tailspins. With smoke emerging from the left engine. She's singing too loudly. She dances, poorly, and in the middle of formerly merging couples. She is making a scene. Then, she staggers, is almost caught by the one almost sober guy in the room, before tilting the other way and ending up on the floor, thankfully, in a sitting position.
Someone pulls her over to the couch. She languishes there, mid-party, for awhile, teetering back and forth and mumbling to herself, but it doesn't last. Those desperate words that freeze the room and terrify the hosts, "I think I'm going to be sick." It's the last hour of the party. Things go badly from there. The vomit is peach pink. And it's everywhere. On the couch. On the floor. On the generous guy. On her. Someone suggests an ambulance. "No way!" is the answer. And take a bust for underage drinking? I think not. Put her outside. It's not that cold!
Everyone pawns her off on the most boring and least intoxicated couple in the room. They try to salvage things in the last ten minutes. She vomits on them too. Everyone is happy to see her go. Sad but true. What a crash.
That's ok! If she comes back Saturday, we'll taunt her into drinking once more. She's one of the girls now.