Paper Weight

Yesterday I bought toilet paper.

In the grand scheme of things, it mightn’t seem like something worth reporting, but I felt it was a turning point.
It ran out about three weeks ago.
For the first while, it wasn’t a problem, I simply put a box of tissues I had lying around into the bathroom and went about my business (no pun intended).
About a week after that, the tissues ran out.

Grocery shopping and general life functioning has been a little beyond me in recent times (see previous post), so it wasn’t a simple matter of going to the supermarket.
The problem needed to be fixed with as little movement on my part as possible.

So I turned to my freakishly large stash of kitchen paper and placed a roll of it in the bathroom.

I don’t know if many of you have used kitchen towel in this manner, but it’s not the softest substance out there.
However I stubbornly continued to use it rather than go to the effort popping out to the shop to get quilted-heaven or even making a note of it to be remembered the next time I left the house.

Yesterday though, in a spacey moment where I zoned out and forgot to take the turn into my still-kinda-new abode, I found myself heading towards the local shop.
I didn’t freak out at the realisation of what I was about to do.
The horror of responsible shopping disappeared and a calm settled over me.
I went into the shop and bought a four-pack of Cushelle toilet paper.
And also bread rolls because I now needed to rebel against something …in this case, my gluten intolerance.
Screw you, Intestines *shakes fist*

I walked home with the smug satisfaction of a grown-up.
That’s right, people, I’m going to use actual toilet paper and it’s not even that cheap stuff -it’s quilted, oooooooo
I dropped my bags and coat in the sitting room and ran up the stairs to the bathroom.
Locking the door, I walked towards the toilet…and realised I’d left the toilet paper downstairs.
I paused for a second and contemplated.
I’d gone to the effort of buying it, so why stop there? I should go down and get it.
But…it was all the way out the door and down the stairs…

And so I used the kitchen towel yet again and the toilet paper is still sitting in that bag in my sitting room waiting to make its way up the stairs.

Baby steps, eh?

I am a Sham

Lads, I’m so sorry about the last post.
I’m guessing that it was just as boring to read as it was for me to write and I apologise to those of you who gave it a shot out of loyalty.
It’s so mundane that it doesn’t deserve comments, so I’m turning them off.
It will be the leper of the blog posts on A Chick Named Hermia.
I guess it’s just one of those stories that you had to be there to appreciate.

So I’m making up for it with something that never fails to entertain:
A story about a time I frightened the shite out of The Boy.
*collective cheer*

This is the layout of the far end of our apartment (this will be important so that you can properly imagine the later scenario):
As you all know, one of my favourite pastimes is to jump out from behind random objects or around corners and terrify the living crap out of The Boy.
It’s great craic!
I can’t do it that often though.
If I did it every day, he’d be on his guard.
And that would ruin my fun.
So I space it out.

On Monday, I was feeling a little blue and decided I needed cheering up.
I hadn’t frightened him in at least three weeks so he was absolutely due one!
Yay!

I was took my time though.
You can get careless if you rush the process and then you waste a rare opportunity.
So I was patient.
The perfect chance came when he went into his bathroom to get ready for bed.
I had a moment of sheer genius.
In our closet, we have a long double-level rail, the top of which is completely filled with clothes.
The lower rail is left empty so we can store laundry bags in the space.

Knowing I had mere minutes, I had to be quick.
I pulled out the laundry bags, ducked under the lower rail and squeezed myself into the limited space between it and the wall…the area marked with the ‘X’ on the diagram.
After a bit of a struggle, I managed to pull the laundry bags back in and I sat (well, stood) in wait.

After a couple of minutes, The Boy came out of the bathroom.
I held my breath.
He stopped.
He could sense I was up to something.
Damn, this could ruin everything.
Those few seconds lasted forever as he just stood there, looking around.
Listening.

And then he began to move again.
Yes!!
He was feeling safe and secure in his own home.
The perfect time to have me give him a heart attack.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRR RRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHH HHHHHHHH”
I pushed the clothes hanging on the rail apart and waved my arms around for extra effect.

He jumped, closed his eyes and clutched his heart (he does that every time…for his health, I should probably stop doing this…soon).
“Did I scare you!?” I asked, with an adorable grin and all the excitement of a 3-year-old on Christmas morning written all over my face.
He nodded.

True Love.

EDIT: Judging by the comments, the start of this post seems to be making you all think there’s a lot of hand-wringing, sobbing and self-flogging going on in Chez Hermia over the last (uber boring) post.
It’s ok…you can relax, guys.
As you should have gathered by this point, I have a flair for the dramatic when expressing myself, so if I’m thinking “Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, that last post was fairly dull” it comes out as “OMG!!!! I am the WORST person in the ENTIRE WORLD EVER for even THINKING of writing that post! I should be shunned! SHUN ME, PEOPLE!!!”
I like to think it makes things a little more interesting around here!
So you can stop reassuring me in comments that the last post wasn’t the worst thing written since Twilight…I know it wasn’t AWFUL…it was just a bit boring.
But thank you for your support anyway!

Hermia vs Dunnes

I was doing my grocery shopping in Dunnes last Wednesday.
I know…it’s a thrilling life I lead.
Anyway, after I found what I needed, I then queued up for 10mins while the dizzy middle-aged lady took her time scanning in the groceries belonging to the man in front of me.
He had about 15 items.
I thought his head was going to explode.
She had some unbelievably shameful moments during this process, but my personal favourite was when she picked up an onion and said “So…this…is………………… an onion?”
Did she raise her voice at the end of that sentence?
WAS THAT A QUESTION!?
She looked at the man for conformation.
He nodded in disbelief.
She looked pleased with herself.

Eventually she got to me and thankfully didn’t take too long scanning my items in.
“Emmmmm….that’s twenty euro aaaaaaaaaaand…..seven cent,” she told me.
I handed her a fifty-euro note and a ten cent coin.
She looked at the money in her hand for a minute.
Till Lady: Emmmmm….*looks at the screen*…..a fifty and a ten….emmmmm. I don’t know how to put this in.
Hermia: Em, ok?
Till Lady: *looks at me for help*
Hermia: *looks confused*
Till Lady: *turns around to another till girl working behind her* Louise!!?
Louise: *flinches* *ignores her*
Till Lady: LOOOUUUUIIISSSEEE!!!?
Louise: *sighs in resignation* Yes?
Till Lady: I have a fifty and a ten! *waves fifty euro note in the air*

Fudging hell, Woman!
This is TALLAGHT!
I’m going to be attacked and mugged when I leave here if you keep waving that around!

Louise: *looks confused*
Till Lady: How do I put it in?
Louise: Oh, put it in as 5 0 1 0.
Till Lady: 5….?
Louise and Hermia: *looks of disbelief*
Louise: 5 0 1 0 and then press ‘cash’.
Till Lady: 5…..em….*looks at screen*….5….*looks back at Louise*…5…
Louise: 5 0 1 0 and then press ‘cash’!
Till Lady: …..wait, what do I press?
Hermia: 5 0 1 0 and then press the ‘cash’ button.
Louise: *smiles her thanks*
Till Lady: *looks at me* *looks at till* *looks confused*
Hermia: On the screen, press 5 0 1 0 and then ‘cash’. You don’t need full stops or anything.
Till Lady: *presses 5* 5….
Hermia: 0
Till Lady: 0
Hermia: 1
Till Lady: 1
Hermia: 0
Till Lady: 0
Hermia: Now press the ‘cash’ button.
Till Lady: Cash button…..?
Hermia: The ‘cash’ button.
Till Lady: Cash button. *till pops open* Oh….oh right….and now your change?

Yes that was a question.

The End.

Conversations with People Who Aren’t The Boy

…just in case you guys were starting to think I had no other friends.

In the office…
Me: I’m going to the shop, do you want anything?
Work Friend: Oh yes can you get me one of those chocolate muffins with the stuff on top.
Me: Like the one I got you the last time with the weird icing stuff?
Work Friend: No, no, no, there are like, little cubes of chocolate…
Me: Oh I know the ones you’re talking about. We used to sell them in the shop I worked in. I used to rob the little chocolate cubes off them.
Work Friend: *look of shock*
Me: What?
Work Friend: Oh my God!
Me: What? It’s not like I licked them off. We used to freeze the boxes of muffins and then defrost what we needed as we needed them, so when I’d be getting some out for the pastry stand, I used to shake the box and eat the chocolate cubes that fell off.
Work Friend: *still looking shocked*
Me: Stop judging me! It’s not like I was gnawing them off with my spitty teeth! They fell off naturally…with a bit of help…and I always made sure there were a decent amount still left on the muffins.
Work Friend:*look of judgement*
Me: I wore gloves when I handled them!! I couldn’t afford chocolate back then, I was a poor student! Stop looking at me like that!!!
Work Friend: *JUDGE*

Dancing with Myself

Alcohol is great.
No seriously, it is.
It makes you happy.
It makes you feel free.
It can even make you look a million times cooler if you chose the right type of drink.
My current choice is whiskey with a slosh of water and some ice.
On the rocks, if you will.
I won’t lie.
I look like a frickin’ rockstar drinking it!

I know there will be some readers who will say “Tut tut, condoning alcohol, eh? How irresponsible! What if a child reads this!?”
In response to that I’d say, if a child reads this, they’ll have gotten a very helpful lesson in ‘Looking Cool’, so that’s my charity work quota filled for the week.

But seriously, it’s fun to drink as long as you’re not a complete gobsheen about it.
I say this as someone who didn’t drink until they were 20.
I also say it as someone who drinks maybe once/twice a month.
So I AM responsible and stuff and therefore what I say is mature and full of wisdomosity.

There are a few downsides to being a Drunky McDrunkerson.
For me specifically there are two.
Number One: Whatever is in my head, will come out of my mouth.
This is bad.
Number Two: I think I can dance.
This is REALLY bad.

Myself and The Bessie went to The Oak on Saturday night.
In this basement club, there is an empty stage.
It’s just there.
Just asking to be stood on.
I had a bad experience of mixing alcohol with stages back in college.
From that night on, I vowed not to mix the two again.
And then The Oak happened.

I stood at the opposite end of the dance floor, eyeing it warily, daring it to tempt me.
No chance, Mr Stage, you ain’t breaking through my resolve.
Thou shall not pass, and all that.
But then the whiskey happened.
And Mr Stage turned into a pulsating beacon of sunshine and unicorns, pulling me in.
Ten minutes later I had mounted it with The Bessie and our newly-acquired friend, Drunk Guy.

I broke out my awesome dance moves.
My awesome drunk dance moves.
You guys have heard about my sober dancing, so can you image alcohol being added to that mix?
“Man, I’m too hot,” I thought, mauling my own body and waving my hands over my head, while looking down at the ground.
Throw some sweaty hair swishing in for good measure and of course, some hip-swivelling.
Then there was probably twirling and some jerky shoulder movements and pouting.
“I bet I look SO sexy right now” I thought gazing down at my adoring fans, who were all pretending to ignore me.
I think I may have pulled my ‘ghetto’ moves out at some point.
I don’t actually have ‘ghetto’ moves.
I’m whiter than white, lads.
I am Vanilla H.

So in conclusion.
Alcohol = Awesome
Me + Five Glasses of Whiskey = Complete Gobsheen

Hermia vs Tesco

If you know me at all, you know not to come between me and food.
I have been known to throw tantrums of epic proportions if I have my heart set on a meal and I don’t get it.
I’m not even joking.
I’m frickin’ TERRIFYING!

Those of you following me on Twitter or Facebook know that I spent most of yesterday drooling over this recipe, which I then decided I would make for dinner.
I did my grocery shopping in Tesco when I got back to Tallaght after work and unusually, found everything I needed.

That should have warned me something was going to go wrong.

I went to the Self-Service checkouts and scanned in my items.
The last item I scanned was my mini bottle of wine for the sauce.

PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE

Oh ok.
I waited patiently as Tesco Girl (who was usually at those checkouts) took her time getting around to me.
She was the stereotypical Tallaght Girl: overweight in ill-fitting clothes, vacant expression on her face, mouth hangingy open and an accent that made your teeth itch (the majority of people in Tallaght are actually very respectable, normal people, but this is the label we have *sigh*).
Eventually she got to me.

Tesco Girl: Can I see your ID.
Me: Excuse me.
Tesco Girl: I need your ID.
Me: *not really understanding* My ID?
Tesco Girl: Yeah.
Me: ….but I’m 24 in April.
Tesco Girl: It doesn’t matter. I need to see some ID.
Me: But I don’t carry ID. I’m 24 in April.
Tesco Girl: I still need your ID.

I’m not one for having a go at shop staff, because they usually get abused for things that aren’t their fault.
I used to get abused by 12-year-olds who wanted to buy cigarettes when I worked in a shop.
But they were obviously underage and as I am no lawbreaker, I wouldn’t serve them.
I would never do this though.
I would have to be (A) A sad individual, desperate to wield the only power I had in the world, or (B) slightly retarded not to serve me alcohol.

Me: I don’t look even remotely 17.
Tesco Girl: *shrugs shoulders*
Me: I got into a 21s club a little while ago without being asked for ID, but you’re asking me for it now for a tiny bottle of wine obviously being bought as an ingredient for a meal I’m making.
Tesco Girl: If you’re under 25, you need to show me ID.
Me: *spots The Boy coming over* Urgh, hold on a second.
Tesco Girl: *also spots The Boy* I can’t let anyone else buy it for you.

See?
She KNEW me.
She recognised HIM as MY BOYFRIEND because SHE KNEW US!

Me: *ignores the stupidity in front of me* The Boy, do you have ID on you?
The Boy: *looks confused* No, why?
Me: *to Tesco Girl* This is ridiculous. I’m 24 in April, he’s 24 now.
Tesco Girl: I need some ID.
Me: Why? You know I’m not 17.
Tesco Girl: I need it so I can scan it through.
Me: So you can scan my ID?
Tesco Girl: Eh, no.
Me: So you don’t need to scan my ID.
Tesco Girl: No.
Me: So since you know I’m not underage, you can just allow it without me needing ID.
Tesco Girl: Eh, no.
Me: You know me! You know him! We’ve been coming here for over a year! You know us! You know we’re not 17 years old!! We come here nearly every day!!
Tesco Girl: *shrugs shoulders* I haven’t seen you in a while.
Me: And what!?? WAS I GOING TO HAVE AGED BACKWARDS IN THAT SPACE OF TIME.
Tesco Girl: *speechless*
Me: This is madness. I don’t have ID on me. I have no need to carry ID.
Tesco Girl: I can cancel the wine from your list for you.
Me: *can’t understand why she said that like she was doing me a favour* You know what, you can cancel the whole feckin’ lot! *storms off*

So I couldn’t make the dinner.
We ordered Dominos instead and I sat in a rage for the rest of the night, because I didn’t want pizza.
I wanted the chicken thing.
Which I made tonight instead.
It was lovely.
The End

Conversations with The Boy

The Boy has been painfully unhilarious over the last couple of months, hence the lack of Conversations With The Boy posts.
This one is definitely a drop in his standard.
He has been reprimanded for this and promises to be funnier in future.
He also promises to recreate his Bebo drawing from a hazy memory for this post.

Me: *walking into the kitchen to get breakfast*
The Boy: *in a world of his own tying his shoe laces* *sung to the tune of Cheryl Cole’s Parachute* Baby you’re my parachute, saving me from falls and stuff…

Me: Oh God, I don’t feel well.
The Boy: You want a hug.
Me: Oh God no. If you squeeze me, I might throw up.
The Boy: I’d clean it up for you.
Me: *clutches heart* Awh, you’d clean up my vomit.

After the Sound of Music Opera Special…
The Boy: *switches on some political programme*
Me: No please, I can’t stand more politics. It’s all just terrible!
The Boy: It’s better than those VonCrap children. *chuckles in a pleased-with-himself manner* VonCrap.

Watching some car ad that had scantily-clad ladies…
The Boy: What does this have to do with cars?
Me: Nothing. It’s just selling them with sex. They think porn is cool. *thinks for second* Porn IS cool!

 

Let me tell you about the time I….was asked for my number

I was standing at the bus stop freezing my ass off this morning when a rather familiar young chap appeared at the other side of the commuter group.
Hmmmm….where did I know him from?
He glanced in my direction, caught my eye and looked away immediately, looking uncomfortable.

Jesus, he’s obviously not pleased to see me.
That really didn’t narrow it down.
Who the hell IS he!?

Eventually I remembered that he used to work a couple of shops down from Lentra.
Ah.
Mayo Boy.
Cue the lightbulbs and falling pennies.
Now I know why he’s not pleased to see me….

Flashback
Flashback
Flashback

Every Saturday, he’d come in for his lunch just before we closed up the deli
And every Saturday we’d make awkward conversation until I’d made his sandwich.

See, I attract weirdos.
I always have and probably always will.
I think it’s because I’m so socially awkward and uncomfortable when I meet new people that I willingly latch on to anyone remotely friendly (weirdos are normally over-eager to make conversation) and then the connection has been made before I realise that I’m about to befriend someone who probably has a creepy doll collection and dresses up as his mother.
At that stage it’s impossible to shake them.

Mayo Boy wasn’t VERY weird, but he was definitely a little strange in the I-wouldn’t-feel-comfortable-being-left-in-a-room-alone-with-you way.
He was also about a foot shorter than me.

This particular day he came in acting stranger than usual.
Mayo Boy: Can I get a *insert ingredients here* roll
Me: Sure. Do you want butter or mayo?
Mayo Boy: URGH! NO! Not mayo!! Just butter! Not mayo!
Me: Eh…ok…no mayo then.
Mayo Boy: Mayo is TERRIBLE.
Me: *shrugs shoulders* Well I like it.
Mayo Boy: You shouldn’t eat it. Mayonnaise makes you die.
Me: *pauses* Excuse me?
Mayo Boy: It makes you die.
Me: Eh…right…but not really.
Mayo Boy: No, it does. It makes you die.
*awkward silence ensues*
Me: Well here’s your roll.
Mayo Boy: Can I get your number?
Me: *looks around in a panicked manner, partly hoping no one heard that, partly hoping someone would rescue me*
Mayo Boy: *looks painfully hopeful*
Me: Eh….no….sorry.
Mayo Boy: Oh…why?
Me: *can’t believe he’s asking that question* I have a boyfriend.
Mayo Boy: Oh.
Me: Yeah.
Mayo Boy: *continues to stand there making eye contact*
Me: *wondering if he’s attempting Jedi mind control* Well, I’ve got to go do stuff in the back room.
Mayo Boy: Ok. *walks off slowly*
Boy (now known as The Boy): *appearing from nowhere* Why is your face so red? What happened? Did something happen with X?

After forcing me to tell him by applying the art of merciless pestering, Boy then proceeded to vandalise my Bebo page with drawings of the event…
And that is how Mayo Boy got the name ‘Mayo Boy’.

EDIT: Some genius readers suggested posting the drawing The Boy did, which is obviously an AMAZING idea, making me an idiot for not thinking of it. However, The Boy thought he was really cool and deleted his Bebo account a couple of years ago and when he did that, all the comments he left and pictures he did were also deleted, so I don’t have them anymore!
I will see if I can persuade him to recreate one of them tonight though!

Let me tell you about the time I….fell on stage

Ah yes…yet another embarrassing moment in the life of one Miss Hermia.

You should all know  by now that during my three years at Dublin City University I was an obsessive active member of DCU Drama.
My first year was spent in the background of shows playing characters like the legendary Fiesty Villager 3 and That Random Member of the Salvation Army.
It wasn’t until Second Year that I was actually given a proper part with a name and everything!
The show was the annual Pantomime and that year we were doing Back to Neverland.
It’s probably the show I have the best memories of because basically it was the only show that I wasn’t stressed out over as all I had to do was fit into my costume and remember my lines.
Also it was a Hella Funny/Fun show to be a part of.
I do love the random whimsy of panto!

The other day I got a text from the ever-helpful Drama Bob (one of the masterminds behind NYMT…remember Spring Awakening from last year?) telling me that he’d had a chance to put together DVDs of  some of the old shows I’d been in (isn’t he lovely?).
Once I’d gotten them home, the first one I plonked into the DVD player was Back to Neverland.
Curling up on the couch with a cup of tea made by a highly amused The Boy, I began my running commentary:
“Oh God, the Intro Music!! I’d forgotten it was Back to the Future! And oh there’s the music for the Red Indians’ first dance (I played one of the Indian Girls….bimbo-style). OH LOOK, we’re coming out now….and we’re doing our spinning circle thing….and there I am….falling….and still being pulled around in the circle….”
Please see Exhibit A…

Typically, the one night I happen to fall is the night the show is being recorded.
You see there’s a scene later on in the show where the cast comes out with water guns and soaks the audience.
Right before the show that night, some of the lads decided to have a water fight.
On the stage.
And didn’t clean up afterwards.
So as I spun in that circle in my already slippy tights on an already slidey floor and hit a small puddle of water….well I didn’t stand a chance considering I find it difficult to stay upright in ideal conditions.
I think the fact that the people in the circle didn’t stop spinning made it look even more humiliating as the audience got to watch me being dragged along helplessly.

Every other show had gone off without a hitch on my part.
As Murphy’s Law would have it, this also happened to be the night that the Lentra Crew had travelled all the way across Dublin to see my in my first proper role.
They still won’t let me forget it happened.
The Boy (who was then Boy) didn’t come.
He was too cool for plays.
And we may have sorta hated each other then.

Anyway, that wasn’t the only thing that went wrong.
See Exhibit B…

Around the 4:40 mark you’ll see me get a packet of sweets stuck in my bra during our Really Obvious Product Placement gag.
Having the boobies of a ten-year-old, I had no cleavage to nestle them in and so had to jam them under the wee strap at the front of the contraption.
Where they refused to budge from that night.
The Lentra Crew were peeing themselves with laughter at this point.
I should point out that the Blue Indian’s sweets opened up inside her costume during the next show and she was pooping wine gums for the whole scene.

Thankfully I made it through the rest of the show without making a bigger arse of myself.
A miracle, you could call it!
And despite having to sit out the Benny Hill scene because of a twisted ankle caused by the fall, I made it out for the final song, which is still probably my favourite part of the show…

So there you have it.
Hermia’s Terribly Embarrassing Moments now come with video footage (cartoon and otherwise).
Oh and if you’re all reeeaaalllly good, Suzie Q will provide footage of THIS infamous performance very soon!

Let me tell you about the time I….fell asleep on a deli floor

I should start this by saying…
Hello Future/Potential/Current Employers,
This is not a habit of mine.
Don’t hold it against me.

Yay, I’m on Glass Number 2 of Wine.
And as the blog is like a fun easy-going job, I started thinking about other times I was drunk while working.
There are two.
They were both accidental.
This one is about the time I was drunk while working in Lentra.

So I was in college.
It was a Saturday night and someone was celebrating their 21st.
The plan was to go out for food and then on to a bar.
I had work at 8am the next morning so I decided I’d go to the meal and then head home.

I’d only started drinking about two months beforehand, so I was still underestimating the power of alcohol.
And also underestimating the power of ice-cream-based cocktails.
After two of those babies, I was easily convinced to come out for one drink.
Which turned into three.
And a broken pint glass.

Not surprisingly, I was then convinced it would be a great idea to go back to a friend’s apartment where the party was continuing.
Sure it’d be NO problem just popping over the work from her place the next morning.
Her place that was on the other side of Dublin.
And took a bus and a tram ride taking 90mins to get to work the next morning.

The Boy (who was still only Boy at this stage) was the only one working with me the next morning.
He was already sorting out the newspapers when I got there.

“HEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOOO” I shouted at him when I got in there, ruffling his then-gelled hair and proceeded into the staff room where I unsuccessfully attempted to hang my bag and coat up.
Turned out my 2 hours of sleep wasn’t even nearly enough to rid my body of the alcohol I’d consumed.
It took an hour to put the papers together with their magazines as I thought it was hilariously good fun to lie on top of the newspapers, throw the magazines Boy was trying to work with across the shop and continue to stand up and half-fall over.
I think I may have also sorta dismantled a shelf at one point.
Thankfully we never got many customers at that hour on a Sunday morning.

Bless Boy, though; he was so patient.
Although mainly amused, because I was famous for my sobriety and refusal to drink up until this point.

When I retired to the deli to make up mass quantities of sandwich mixes – Chicken and Bacon with Mayo, Chicken with Tikka Mayo, Egg and Mayo and Tuna and Sweetcorn with Mayo – the tiredness was beginning to set in.

When Boy came to check on me a couple of hours later, he found me in a crouched position behind a free-standing storage thingy.
Half an hour later, he had to pull me off the deli floor and tell me it wasn’t the best place to sleep.
I like to think that was the moment he fell in love with me.

Once I’d sobered up, instead of feeling mildly horrified, I was actually just really proud of myself.
Still not sure why.
Maybe it’s because I broke out of my Good Girl persona and became Good Girl Who Can’t Handle Her Drink.
I felt it made me cooler.
College turns people into idiots.