Her

Despite my best efforts, I don't think I could ever forget the first time I saw her.

During the summer of 2010 I did my fair share of procrastinating. Some of the things were minor, from selecting my summer camp shirt in the correct size in time for the order to be placed, to delivering my vacation requests for the summer. One thing I really thought I had boned myself on was registering for classes during my first fall semester at WSU. My initial roster consisted of both micro and macro economics, a core class or two, and some other monstrosity of a freshmen class that I don't recall.

Perhaps it's the fact that I listened to my counselor when I registered for classes initially, though I suspect it's just my rather insane luck streak: I checked back frequently on the open classes, and come my first week of instruction, my schedule was 80% different. I had weaseled my way into the one math class I had to take, English 101, Psych 105, and... some music class that I honestly remember close to none of.

It's fairly safe to say that I changed quite a bit throughout college. One thing that never really did was where I chose to sit in lecture-based classes. I'm left handed and have relatively poor eyesight. I also despise sitting in the very front of the class, i.e. where the professor can easily gaze upon me. Given this, damn near every single lecture session I attended, I sat on the far left-hand side of the room, about 5 or 6 rows back from the very front. This provided me both with a left-handed desk, and the ability to see and hear well enough without having the make eye contact with the professor.

My psychology class that year took place in Todd hall room 211. The main entrance led straight to the professor's podium, with the seats exactly 90 degrees to the right of the entry. Just so you don't have to paint some ridiculous mental picture that I did an awful job of describing, what I'm trying to say is that as you enter the room, you'd walk right past me if you weren't sitting in the first few rows. The people who sat toward the back composed some 90 percent of the attending students in classes like this.

It wasn't in the first handful of classes. We were about two weeks into the the first semester of our college experience when we first met eyes.

As I said previously, about 90% of people who entered my psychology class walk past me before finding their seat. Earlier on this particular Thursday, I had a friend excitedly proclaim that they had switched into my psychology section. Given this, I glanced up virtually any time someone entered the room that day.

She turned the corner into the room and I glanced up halfheartedly, expecting to see my floor mate enter through the double doors. Her bushy, curly hair turning the corner before anything else, I drank in her appearance as a strange feeling overcame me. I knew I had never seen her before. At the same time, she looked incredibly familiar. I held my gaze too long and she broke eye contact first, I blushed somewhat and looked back at my smudgey notebook.

I'll admit, the feeling shook me a bit. For the most part I brushed it off as me just falling in love with literally any woman who makes eye contact with me.

Early the next week, as the crowd of people shuffled their way back to my dorm from our communal class (I forget the term but the idea is that you have one easy class with a lot of people from the residence hall you live in). As usual with the rather massive influx of residents, there was a considerable line for the elevator. Gently placing myself as far into the crowd as I could, I glanced up to see the status of the open elevator in front of me. As I focused on the very back of the elevator, she turned around to get into a more conventional placement in the cramped lift. Again, we locked eyes and again, the feeling of familiarity came over me. I held my gaze as the elevator doors closed, ending the strange moment which had now happened twice.

A week passes. Nothing happens. I begin to write the dual experiences off as a coincidence. As I finish my tray of biscuits and gravy at the closest dining center, I look up to see my friend Randy just across the room from me. My hand starts to raise as words begin to form, soon to bellow a greeting toward my high school friend. My hand spazzes and I choke on my words as I see that he is conversing animatedly with this same woman who I'd made seemingly meaningful eye contact with twice recently. I quickly sit back down in my seat and carve out a plan to meet up with Randy that night.

The plan I'd carved was soon forgotten in lieu of Ben coming to my dorm, proclaiming he'd found a party the he was certain he could get us both into. We bullshit back and forth as we do. Randy messages me on facebook, asking what I'm doing tonight. I fill him in and say that most likely, Ben will be lucky to get himself into this party. A few seconds pass as I imagine Randy did a quick head count, and he responds asking whether or not bringing 7 girls would increase our chances of entry. Fifteen minutes later, we met Randy and his mysterious posse in the lobby of my dorm.

I recall where I was sitting, facing directly away from the entrance, facing Ben. I heard Randy enter and a collection of giggles not far behind him. It took most of the effort I had at the time to stay focused on Ben, so as not to appear overly excited at the group of women that had miraculously chosen to spend their time with us for at least part of the night.

Randy walks up and says hello, and I finally gather the courage to stand up and turn around. To my amazement, she is standing there in the middle of a group of women who I vaguely recognized as other residents in my building. There is a round of introductions, and I finally learn that her name is Mallory.

The 10 of us depart from the Stephenson complex toward Greek Row. One of us has the address, but no one yet had a smartphone to pull up proper directions. We ask several people along the way, consistently getting opposing directions as we wandered our way through the section of Pullman dedicated to underage intoxication.

Something like an hour into what could have been a fifteen minute journey, we come up to the backdoor of the house that Ben swears is the correct location. We hop a short fence and stumble our way into the backdoor of a rather large house.

Feeling as if I was walking on eggshells, we made our way toward the thumping sounds of music coming from the living room, passing several people who don't seem the least bit concerned that 10 strangers just walked in through the back door. We find a sort of tub of punch, and Ben, Randy, and I pay the five dollar fee for a cup, free refills included.

We all stand in a circle, a room or two away from the dance floor. Conversation begins slowly, but as we enter our second, third, and some of us, fourth cup of punch, the words begin to flow far easier. One of the group that Mallory came with, who later became my good friend Erica, announces that she knows of another party not far from here that we can all go to. The group of women all seem very keen on moving on, so I naturally announced my own passionate desire to move to the next venue.

After a handful of loud thanks and high fives to the residents of the place, we depart as a group. We turn left at the sidewalk and begin our journey to the next place we plan to imbibe. Just ahead to my right, I see two campus PD vehicles. I casually look around, and to my horror, notice that one of us brought their drink outside as they left. As the phrase "hey dumbfuck put your cup down" escapes my mouth, an officer approaches and singles the offender out, inquiring as to what is in the cup. Out of the 10 of us, perhaps two others were aware of what was happening at the time. I half beg, half shove them along as I figure that anyone staying back will probably face similar charge to the MIP (minor in possession) that our friend was undoubtedly facing a few feet back.

We reach the end of the block and the realization that someone had left our group dawned upon the rest of us. A few of them decided to hang back and do what they could to assist our recently arrested friend. At this point the roaming group is down to myself, Mallory, Erica, and another who I became very close friends with, whose name I'll omit for this part.

The four of us enter the next house, and I am immediately aware of a weird fucking vibe. It felt like the three women who I'd arrived with were the only in the building, and everyone else was keenly aware. We traveled as a group to a room upstairs where shots were poured almost immediately. On the way up the stairs I look down to see someone pointing directly at me. Seconds after the girls took their first shot of vodka, a student entered the room complete with high top black socks, flip flops, gym shorts, a tank top, and backward hat. He singles me out and says "bro you gotta go." I look for a moment toward my newfound friends, who seem perfectly happy to stick around as I'm booted from the place.

Completely out of options, I agree to leave and do my best to be friendly to the piece of shit who escorted me out. It didn't go well.

As I walked outside, I looked up and realized I was somewhat trashed. I went in a few circles before finding the path back to my dorm. I slid my cougar card to gain entry, rode the elevator to my floor, entered my room, and slopped down into my chair as my phone began to ring.

Erica, who I'd exchanged numbers with earlier that night, began talking before I could say hello. It took me a moment to soak in what she was saying. After a few high pitched iterations of her speech, I gathered that during my journey back, Mallory and the fourth of our group drank quite a bit, and now needed to be escorted back to our building.

I gaze toward my computer monitor as I'm almost finished loading into a Counter-Strike server. I sigh, shut my system down, and deliver the news that I'll be there in about fifteen minutes if I can remember the best route.

Without too many wrong turns, I arrive at the same house that I was recently rudely removed from. I approach the door man and explain that I have two friends inside that need to be helped. His response, totally not reinforcing the rapey reputation that fraternities have, told me that they could make their own way out and that I wouldn't be let in to help them. I call Erica, who comes out, yells with the door man unsuccessfully, and re-enters to try to drag the two barely conscious freshmen out of the now extremely sketchy building. I take a seat on the nearby curb as the chairs near the entrance were apparently "for brothers only," and see a familiar face approaching me.

David fucking Beatty walks up with a pile of pizzas in hand, and after saying hello to me, walks up to the door man and begins to enter the house. I let out some sort of noise that indicated I needed to speak with him.

I explain my situation, and I don't even have to ask the favor that I need so badly before he walks in and returns moments later with a babbling friend #4 in his arms. I place her in a chair, defiant of the asshole door man's gaze, and wait for him to bring Mallory out. To my immense pleasure, she was at least able to walk out the door herself.


At this point I am charged with the task of escorting two extremely drunk women whom I barely know back to our dorm some 20 minutes away. A series of carrying, stopping for puking, dragging, chasing, and yelling later, we are finally in the elevator in my building. I soon discover that the fun is far from over as the puking is in full effect, and Erica asks if I can assist further. We travel up to their 13th floor "penthouse" and I begin hauling people to the bathroom where Erica takes over with the fine tuning of vomiting assistance. She tells me that they'll all be sleeping in her room tonight, and that she'd appreciate if I stuck around to help if needed during the night.

I ride the elevator 9 floors down to my room and grab a blanket. As I'm about to exit my dorm, a silly idea crosses my mind, and I retreat a few steps to put a spray of cologne on the blanket that was accompanying me.

I finally fall asleep as the sun comes up, and the clouds were visible slightly below us, so elevated on floor 13 of Stephenson North. Two or so hours later I wake up on the uncomfortable floor, and quietly see myself out, purposely but "accidentally" leaving behind the blanket I'd brought, somewhat desperate for a reason to talk with Mallory later that day.

Hours pass and I manage to sleep a bit more. Noon rolls around and I'm finally on that Counter-Strike server when I hear a knock at my door. I open it to see the three women who I'd spent so much time with the night prior. Mallory is holding my blanket and my heart rate shoots through the roof.

I invite them in and we recap a bit of what happened, laughing quite a bit while friend #4 pleads us not to be too loud so as not to aggravate her already throbbing head. Mallory hands me my blanket, mentioning that it smells very nice.

The Tuesday after, Mallory sat next to me in psychology. We did the same the following Thursday, and every class session for the rest of the semester.

It only took a few sessions of quietly chatting while we should having been paying attention for me to have fallen. I fell fast, and for quite a distance.

It wasn't long before I gathered that she didn't feel the same way about me. There was another guy in the picture. I met him, shook his hand, even smiled and laughed as we talked. Looking back it's extremely pretentious and assumptive that I thought this way, but I felt noticeably happier about the prospect of this guy and Mallory after I met him. I was extremely confident that they didn't mesh well. Luckily for me this held to be accurate, and I gleefully heard her say that she wanted nothing to do with the guy anymore just a few days later.

A week or so later, the same group of four+Randy were gathered in Randy's room, taking shots of flavored rum before wandering about that night in search of a whimsical party. The pre-game that took place was a bit more intense than usual, and it was deemed necessary to hold back a bit to sober up before trying to go out and get way less sober. As Mallory and I sat on Randy's roommate's bed she began to unload a set of insecurities. I don't remember putting my arm around her, but I do clearly remember when I leaned over and kissed her forehead for the first time.

We never left Randy's room that night, and her and I eventually slopped over and fell asleep, much to the displeasure of Randy's roommate. At some point in the night she went to our dorm, and Randy told his room mate to return, saying that him (Randy) and I would share his bed.

I woke up early that morning and put my arm around the person snuggled up next me. It's there for perhaps three seconds before realizing that I had just tried to cuddle Randy.

I shoot upright and exit the room. As I'm heading back toward my dorm, silently cursing myself for having done something wrong the night prior, my heart leaps as I run into Mallory. We take turns trying to speak first, only capable of speaking at the exact same time. Finally, we manage to properly take turns making sentences toward each other. We decide to go get breakfast at the nearby dining center. It was this morning that I discovered her passion for waffles with strawberries. I observed the care with which she used the waffle station, and after seeing her beautiful creation, asked if she wouldn't mind preparing one for me.

She turned to me slowly and smiled, and told me that she'd be happy to.

We sat at a table far from anyone else dining and recounted the events of last night. All the while we were careful not to mention specifically any of the "arm around her" business that happened the night before. We finish our excellently prepared waffles, place our trays in the return, and begin the journey back to our dorm.

After we get about halfway back, she explains that she's feeling sick, and begins leaning on me as we continue to walk. I feel half-happy that she's leaning on me, and half-guilty that I'm happy that she's feeling weak enough to do so. We enter our building and she explains that she would rather not go back to her room because of her rather judgemental roommate. I offer my bed for her to rest in while I find some other way to occupy my time.

She climbs up to my bed and falls asleep almost instantly. I sit in my chair for a few minutes stunned at how the last twelve hours had gone, and racking my brain trying to decipher whether or not any of it was remotely positive. I grab my favorite John Steinbeck book and begin reading near my window. I fully admit that I didn't feel like reading at all. I felt like having Mallory wake up and seeing me engrossed in a novel.

A while later she wakes up and I stand to speak with her at eye level as she lay on my lofted bed. She explains that she still isn't feeling well. My eyes dart briefly to her hand dangling off the side of the bed, and mid sentence I gently take it in my own and continue talking. She grasps my hand in response as we continue our conversation. This happened late January 2011.

February 2nd, we began dating.

So much more than I could ever accurately put into words happened between her and I between that cold February night where our journey truly began and the empty November afternoon where we ended things permanently.

I'm sure you're familiar with movies or tv shows containing a breakup scene of two characters who had a long and arduous past. Almost without fail, these scenes contain an intense buildup, and in-person fight, and a whole selection of intense music to fit the scene.

I always watched scenes like that and thought to myself, wow, that's rough. This music makes it all so much worse.

I wish that's what it was like. I wish there had been music, dreadful as it perhaps is intended to be. I wish there had been a significant buildup leading to an era-ending conclusion.

My relationship which had such a rich beginning, which I grew so much from, which spanned five years, was concluded by a text message.

There was no music.

There wasn't really any sound at all.

In fact, only two of my senses seemed to be functioning at the time. Sight, so that I could reread the message over and over again, and touch, but only so that I could realize how numb I had become.

Over the next two days I sought to maintain that feeling of numbness as best I could. Minutes after I concluded my marathon session of reading those words, I looked up to find myself at the QFC self-checkout purchasing a fifth of admiral nelson. I drank myself into oblivion until my roommate finally stepped in and suggested that maybe I hold off for a bit on my next grocery trip. Humiliated and knowing he was right, I took probably the longest shower of my life while morphing from standing upright and screaming, to laying in the tub shaking out of some combination of sadness, fear, and rage.

She hasn't spoken to me in 10 months.

Sadly enough that's where I'm going to conclude this. I understand that I probably overshared to some extent. I understand that hearing about someone's ex is less than desirable. I understand that I didn't deal with this situation in the way I should have, and that all of the thoughts and feelings have been steadily brewing over the last year. I understand that right now, I think writing this is doing much more good than harm.

Halloween 2012

Halloween in Pullman, Washington is an extremely special time. This sentiment holds true for most WSU students, but for me personally, Halloween weekend party nights are some of the most memorable times I experienced between 2010 and 2014.

Late October 2010 was the first night I ever reached the point of being drunk. You read that correctly, it took a solid two and a half months of living in my dorm to get to the point where I imbibed enough to really understand what being drunk is like. This was still in the dark days where I could not only take shots, but even handle shots of tequila. Anyone that claims to know me now is keenly aware of the fact that I don't take shots of hard alcohol. With the rare exception of chilled jager or fireball, I absolutely will avoid the 1.5oz doses of the hard stuff.

However far and away the most memorable Halloween was in 2012. After being drunk for my first time freshman year, to going to an absolutely wild frat party as a sophomore, I was excited for the events that were to transpire at the end of this coming October. Having talked up the atmosphere of this holiday in Pullman, something like seven or eight people from Tri-Cities made the two and a half our drive to see what all the fuss was about.

The night starts off regularly enough. Despite having something like 18 people in our house ready to drink and have fun, we decide we need to move the show down to what we hear is a real rager, all the fucking way across town. Still, culture dictated it necessary to pre game rather significantly before braving the two or so mile walk to what better be one hell of a party. After what feels like an eternity of slamming whiskey cokes and pouring shots for everyone, we manage to group up and begin the journey.

At this point it's important to note I've changed some of the names of people in this story. Everything below did occur, but I know that if I were certain characters in this situation, I'd much rather not have my name tied to the story.

Multiple events happen at the same time throughout this and I'll try my best to make it clear when I'm switching between.

The most violent rain I'd ever experienced in Pullman was pouring down in full swing as we left our duplex. Our group is somewhere between 15 and 20 people, and not everyone is totally keen on going to the same place. About five minutes into our walk, a group of three people including Mallory decide to branch off and head to greek row to check out the frat parties. I don't blame them for not wanting to walk two miles in the pouring rain while in Halloween costumes which didn't exactly serve as severe weather clothing. We part ways and the rest of the group continues down the path that runs parallel to North Grand Avenue. This is where things start to get a little weird.

Enter Barry and James. Out of the 14 or so remaining in this group, these are the two I'm walking next to. Barry starts running off from the group and hiding in bushes, trying to jump out and surprise people. This isn't odd behavior for Barry, but after a few attempts I realize the guy is barely able to stand after jumping up. James deems this the appropriate time to share the fact that Barry pounded something like 8 drinks just before leaving. Due to the speed of his consumption, it didn't catch up to him until about 20 minutes later.

Keep in mind that at this point we're almost all under 21. It's very easy to navigate the city of Pullman whilst very drunk as a minor and not be apprehend by police. They know that you're probably drunk, but if you're walking coherently and not causing trouble, they generally have better things to focus on.

By now we're approaching Stadium Way, the other major road in Pullman which intersects with Grand. It is likely the busiest street in the city, and naturally this meant it was one of the most heavily patrolled by police. We arrive at the end of the path where you may turn left or right onto the sidewalk of the street. I see Ozzie, dressed as Batman, jumping around like crazy, full of excitement as we're a significant way closer to the party. Due to Barry's antics, Ozzie, James, myself, and Barry are all a solid length behind the rest of the group.

As the entire rest of the crowd had gone left here, we use our incredible common sense and begin to make the same change in direction. We make it 30 or so feet when I realize that Barry isn't with us. With some mixture of a gasp and sigh, I turn around to see his drunken ass sprinting across the busiest street in the city, not a crosswalk in sight. It's here I begin to worry.

Ozzie is vaguely aware of the situation, and makes the call that he isn't dealing with it right now. He takes off by himself to try to catch up with the jumble of people up ahead. James and I look at each other and realize that we either try to catch up to the drunken idiot our friend is at the moment, or pick him up from a holding cell in the morning following being charged for a minor in possession. Wordlessly, but shaking our heads, we turn right and walk swiftly to attempt to track Barry down while doing our best not to bring attention to ourselves.

We cross the street at a crosswalk, and I look at my phone to check the time. With a pang of fear I realize it is at 9% battery. We walk back down the street scanning for signs of the infant we were now in charge of. Mostly by luck, James gestures to what looks like a random lump next to a large green bush. I stare for a second and realize it's moving, only just barely and in an extremely graceless fashion. We get closer, and I'm able to make out that the scene unfolding in front of me was Barry trying to unlock his phone. By trying, I mean he was literally incapable of sliding his thumb across the screen of his iPhone to access the main functions of the device. We're in the parking lot of a McDonald's, and quickly running out of ideas. For some reason, James and I decide the best course of action is to move Barry inside the fast food establishment, and ascertain the best move after we dry off a bit.

Barry only gets worse as we grab a table in the far corner of the restaurant. We sit him down in a booth, but he's barely able to maintain the functions necessary to sit down. He starts yelling every few moments, and we're starting to get a lot of weird looks. I can tell we're moments from being asked to leave.

I retreat to the bathroom to try to pull myself together. I check my phone again to see it's now at 7%. But then another unpleasant realization sets in: even if my phone stays on long enough for us to call someone to come pick us up, who in the hell would I try? It's Halloween weekend at WSU and literally every person in Pullman who I'd ever met was probably plastered well beyond driving capabilities.

Switching gears for a moment, we'll check in with the rest of the crowd.

Ozzie never managed to catch up to the rest of the group who had pulled ahead of us. At one point he begins to follow a crowd of people he assumes is his, only to find out a block and a half later that he caught up to the completely wrong people. Following a failed attempt to join up with them, he goes to pull out his phone to call Blake or Ashley who stayed in the larger collection of people. It's here that he discovers that all that excited jumping he had performed earlier meant that his phone came out of his pocket, and is now somewhere on the one mile stretch he'd walked down some 15 minutes earlier. Ozzie isn't one to let things like get him down though. He continues his trek through the neighborhood, confident that he'll stumble upon this wonderful shindig we've all been working our way toward.

Meanwhile, Mallory and a few our her friends move to their second house party of the night. They meet up with her younger sister, whose friend from their home town has joined in the festivities. They go from house to house, being handed drinks left and right by totally not creepy fraternity members. For this lucky group, things are actually pretty damn fun right now.

Blake and Ashley, who managed to make it all the way to the address we were given, at last arrive and enter the mysterious residence. The atmosphere is immediately uncomfortable as they realize the crowd is all strangely much older than the average age of Pullman residents. Beyond this, most of their friends had fallen behind or been turned astray during the rather arduous journey. The unpleasant decision between staying at this awkward let down of a party, or turning directly around into the pouring rain to walk back to the house, looms over the two as their buzz fades quickly.

Back at the Mcdonald's that we've taken shelter in, I return from the bathroom to find things have gone from bad to worse. An employee is now approaching Barry and James. Suddenly, out of what I still maintain to be nowhere, a young lady walks up to me and asks if we need a ride somewhere. I am in complete shock as to why this absolute stranger is volunteering to take myself, our trainwreck of a friend, and James to whatever destination we chose. Still, I managed to formulate the correct combination of words that led to us cramming into the back seat of her two door Honda.

I cross my fingers and begin to utter something like a prayer as we begin moving, hoping Barry won't puke in this car. Lucky for us he went into his charming mode, and actually strung together as many as three syllables together at a time. At this point being relatively sure that no one will be arrested, I calm down a bit and even laugh with the girls in the front seat at the utter nonsense coming from Barry's mouth. I am absolutely tickled that utter nonsense was the only the to emerge from Barry during this ride.

We approach our house and after thanking them several times, I invite them in for a drink as a courtesy. They seem to honestly consider it for a moment before politely declining the offer. And I'm extremely pleased they did so: I later found out, after the girl who offered us a ride sent me a friend request on facebook, that these girls were all actually in high school. I had automatically assumed they were freshman at the University, and I'm very pleased that my dumbass invitation didn't lead to drunk-ass high schoolers in my house.

We manage to drag Barry up the stairs into our half of the duplex. We shove him through the front door, and leave him unceremoniously near the entrance. At this point we're completely exhausted from the drenching walk, emotional battery, and dragging the Barry's dead weigh into the house. I begin to ascend the stairs to my room, ready to shut this failure of a night down early.

Blake and Ashley decide they've had enough weird stares and awkward comments and hit the road. Rather downtrodden at this point, schlepping it through two miles of pouring rain the exact opposite direction they just traveled, a vehicle zooms past them and a passenger screams some sort of nonsense at them.

A few moments earlier, Ozzie is lost in the neighborhood relatively close to the failed party. Fear has started to take residence in his mind, as a Domino's driver parks a few houses down from him. A light bulb in his head clicks on as he approaches the car while the driver returns from his drop off. Mustering as much charm and sobriety as he could, he proudly declares that he, Batman, was in need of a ride back to the bat cave, and will this gentlemen please help the people of Gotham? By some stroke of luck comparable to a high school girl offering us a ride home earlier, the driver accepts this strange proposition. As they drive down Grand Ave, he spots Blake and Ashley, shouting at them excitedly out the passenger window.

Mallory and her collection of friends steadily raise their blood alcohol content every few minutes. She notices that her sister's out of town friend is starting to get extremely tipsy. Deciding to slow down a bit herself, she decides to keep an eye on the young woman.

As I'm almost halfway up the stairs, I hear the retching begin from near the front door. I turn back to see a small fountain of vomit erupt from Barry. The majority of this stream manages to make its way directly in Mallory's purse which sat on the floor next to him. Seeing how I managed to save him from being arrested I figured I may as well go the extra step and ensure he doesn't asphyxiate. James takes the reins as we drag his barely coherent ass down the hall to his bathroom. After what felt like much longer than necessary, the fountain subsides and we feel confident enough to leave him on his side and finally chill out for a minute or two.

The driver takes Ozzie pretty close to our house, but doesn't have the time to make the full trip. With a very extravagant thank you and probably some sort of batman quote, he exits the vehicle and immediately proceeds to walk in the wrong direction, away from the house. After he notices this and corrects his mistake, he arrives back at the house at about the same time Blake and Ashley do.

Back in Mallory's position, the young friend has surpassed the ability to walk in a straight line. Terrified that she would never be able to make the walk back to where she was staying, Mallory calls me in desperation to see if we can help at all.

Just as we all gather in the living room and begin to recount our individual stores of the night, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I answer it quickly after seeing that it's Mallory calling, and the tone of her voice quickly indicates that something is wrong. She explains that her sister's friend came up for the weekend, and long story short wasn't quite ready for the full Pullman experience. She inquires if by some miracle anyone is sober enough to drive up and take them home. I ask the room at large, and with another stroke of luck, James announces he hadn't actually had more than a drink or two earlier. Trusting in him completely, the two of us pile into my car and make the sketchy drive to greek row.

After far too many miscommunications about where Mallory was actually located, we manage to converge on each other. I get out to hug Mallory and check to see if everyone was alright. It's at this point that the young lady we're here to drive home stumbles up to me, looks me straight in the eye, and declares "you're not even that cute." Already thrilled with the situation, my mood begins to deteriorate even further. Mallory whispers something encouraging in my ear, but before this can have any positive effect, I count how many people are here. Mallory, myself, James, Mallory's sister and her friend, and another friend that had tagged along. My car holds five people, not the full six that we had assembled here. Mallory offers to walk home with me, as we certainly weren't about to leave one of these women to walk home alone in the middle of the night. Realizing both that some time alone would probably be beneficial for me right now, and that Mallory would probably be needed to get this now wasted teenager into her room for the night, I declined her offer.

As I walked back to my house, completely alone on what was supposed to be an excellent night, it hits me that while this whole thing has been a complete disaster, it will at least make a pretty okay story someday.

I enter the front door my house for the last time that night. By this time Mallory and James had already been to dorm where Mallory's sister lives and returned to my place. She is extremely distraught over the fact that contents of Barry's stomach now lined the inside of her purse. Still, she apologizes again for all of the stuff that went down, and I appreciate the hell out of it. I begin to explain the other 90% of what happened that night. A lot of laughter was had as we all told the stories of how our night went. I was crowned as winner of putting up with the most bullshit, and I then swore to one day do my best to craft a retelling of the shitty but hilarious night. The next day, with the exception of some absolutely wicked hangovers, everyone was in good health with clean criminal records.

And so that's pretty much the story. I had fun writing it, and look back on that night somewhat fondly now.

Halloween 2013 kicked ass though.

What college was like

As I sit in Kimo's with my fancy super exclusive members only Mug Club mug of Screamin' Eagle IPA, I wonder why the hell more people don't come to bars to write. I mean why are coffee shops the "normal" place to write a screenplay that will never be finished? Is coffee that inspiring to people? I go through phases with coffee but I know I've never had a cup and then went "wow I just thought of a cool story." It's not that I'm asserting that drinking beer turns a person into a creativity spewing being, only that from multiple personal experiences, my fingers flow much faster and easier as I'm writing with a beverage or two in me. Toward the end of my time at WSU I think the majority of my papers were written with at least a slight buzz. I mean I got a flippin' C+ in English 101 freshman year when I barely touched the sauce. Oddly enough my GPA slowly went up throughout my time in Pullman.

There are things I miss about Pullman and the general college lifestyle. At this point I pretty much view the four year period through graduation goggles, i.e. through rose colored glasses in which I see only the fond memories I had during that time as opposed to the truthful mix of good and shitty that did exist. Particularly lately as the weather starts to turn, I look back fondly to several of the odd circumstances I found in during the winter months.

It's Friday. My first alarm goes off at 10 a.m. I snap awake with the unpleasant realization that I may have had a tad more whiskey last night than is appropriate for a Thursday. I walk over to my sink to fill my empty water bottle. A good, hydrating chug later, the realization that my room is like 50 degrees sets in. I walk over to the antique floorboard heater and click it on halfway, so that when I return to my room from my shower, the residual water won't be frozen on to me. I stumble into the bathroom and turn the water to the "hot as fuck" setting. I look around the tiny shower at the collection of beer bottles and shampoo containers that Blake and I have arranged so carefully. I exit the shower and enter my room to find that it is pleasantly warm for the time being. I click the heater back off, because not only is it ridiculously expensive to run, but I'll be leaving relatively soon anyway. I sit down at my desk and open up facebook, at first to be vain and look at all my cool statuses, but also to check the roster for today's newscast. Today I was selected to be the technical director while another classmate sits next to me and takes the roll of news director.

I shut down my computer and make my way downstairs to throw together breakfast. Splotch sits on the stairs and every time I make any movement even vaguely toward her, she shoots up the stairs hoping I will follow her and more importantly, feed her. I retrieve pans from the sink and wash them quickly as the stove heats up. I grab bacon and an egg from the fridge as Splotch yet again sprints up the stairs only to turn around and stare at me angrily. Bread goes into the toaster as the bacon is almost finished and the egg starts to cook. With about four minutes until I need to leave to be on time to the newscast, I throw the ingredients together and consume them faster than is recommended. I place the pans back into the sink, grab my backpack and water bottle, and set off at a quick pace to arrive without a penalty.

After the uphill journey to the Murrow East building, I enter the control room to find that I'm actually one of the first to arrive. With nothing else to do I enter the studio and begin setting up cameras and some of the audio equipment. Other students trickle in and eventually we have the whole crew in their positions.

It's a nerve wracking experience for everyone involved, but at this point we've gotten a flow going pretty well, and most of us can anticipate and remedy small mistakes that others may make. As per usual, the script doesn't make it to the director until five minutes before our warm up run-through. Six frantic minutes of jumbled script notes later, and the professor says it's time to go.

My heart beats at a heightened pace as I place the countdown on screen, and the director begins the process of the run-through. It doesn't go very smoothly. A camera is in the wrong place, one of the anchor's microphones isn't working properly, our floor director has a different rundown than the rest of the crew. This is why we do two runs of the newscast, to hopefully smooth out the kinks in the initial trial. Finally the credits roll, and everyone resets for the actual run. By now the director is slightly beyond nervous, shaking a bit as she reorganizes her script.

Minutes pass. They feel much, much longer than usual. Finally after zoning way the hell out, the voice of the professor over the headset I have on brings me back to reality. Everyone at the news desk is situated and ready to go, the camera operators and I have lined up the best shots we deem available, and finally the countdown is rolling.

The 14 minute 30 second newscast passes in a haze as I let the voice of the director control my every movement. I look to my right a few minutes in and a smile comes across my face briefly as I see how thoroughly she is murdering this. I spaz back into my role as I almost hit a transition late, but manage to barely make it look smooth at the last moment. Finally the credits are rolling again, and silence fills the room as the last few names scroll across the screen. The room is suddenly in an uproar as the director and producer congratulate one another and shake hands and general praise is thrown about. I wait until things calm down a bit and congratulate the director myself, who thanks me for being a reliable second in command that day. I help with putting equipment away and turn the lights off in the control room. For a moment or two I hang back and chat with fellow classmates about how the show went that day. At long last I put on my jacket, plug my headphones into my stupid-ass windows phone, hit play, and journey out into the frosty weather.

The walk to campus is directly uphill from our house. Something like a quarter mile of incline, which looking back I am extremely thankful for. By the time I reached my building, out of breath and somehow sweating in 40 degree weather, my brain is at least now somewhat awake from the exercise. This also meant that at the end of my classes for the day, the walk home was a pleasant downhill journey. Today I decided to take a slightly different route than usual, swinging by Don's Market to grab a 6 pack of bud ice before cutting through the adjacent apartment building's stairway. I finish the last set of stairs and half walk, half slide my way down the icy patch of asphalt leading to the above parking lot. I'm now on Morton St, and my house is just half a block down the road. I wave to a neighbor as they drive down the street, and they are either completely oblivious, or have me pegged as a weirdo that lives on that nasty old house down the road.

Finally, I am walking up to the porch of our horrible, probably-should-be-condemned house. I slide my key into the door out of habit, only to realize again that no one ever bothers to lock the door when they leave. Not because we weren't concerned about people getting in, but because there were windows on  either side a few millimeters thick that couldn't be locked anyway.  Anyway, I slide my key back out and slide the ring back into my pocket. Opening the door, I'm disappointed to find that the temperature inside was only perhaps five degrees higher than that of outside. A small amount of smoke spills out into the chilly air, and the scent of cheap beer and gut-rot liquor soon takes residence in my nose. I close the door behind me as our cat walks up to greet me and let out an annoyed meow in my general direction. Some assortment of other house residents, neighbors, stragglers from the night before etc, greets me as I walk into the kitchen. And by greet, I mean they yelled "aye grab a fucking beer and sit down for a minute," in a way that crushes my hopes of playing video games in my room like a hermit, but puts a smile on my face because I can already tell this afternoon will eventually get pretty damn weird.

We sit around the table for about 45 minutes, vaguely focused on one task but usually being distracted by something completely unimportant. Ben and I find a way into an absolutely pointless argument that we both enjoy the hell out of, but that makes everyone in the vicinity rather uncomfortable. Ozzie stands up and makes the declaration that he hasn't eaten since yesterday, gave blood today, and is on beer #4 already. The rest of the participants give a weary sigh as that's a clear indicator that Ozzie will Ozzie-the-fuck-out tonight. Blake and Cole are having an increasingly excited conversation regarding playing hockey or something, and Ian is probably there laughing at Ben and mine's argument, interjecting at times so as to keep things fair and interesting.

Finally six pm or so rolls around, people arrive from Tri Cities to stay with us for the weekend, Mallory joins in at some point, and everyone is to be on their best behavior, because someone was probably bringing a girl over that they'd met recently, and there's no way she'd make the journey to our place again if we acted as we typically did in these situations. Ozzie makes the best of these instructions by stumbling over to the potential new group member, slurs a very loud hello, and then proceeds to discuss some random controversial topic before the poor lady can even get her jacket off.

Control of the music is fought over with every song, and the volume is increasing by a few ticks every few minutes. Someone makes the decision that the time for beer consumption has passed, and now it's time to pop open that box of Franzia that we'd been saving for a special occasion. By that I mean we bought it that morning and by sheer willpower held off on opening it until later that night. Cups, ranging from beer glasses, to plastic fish, to sippy cups, to fancy wine glasses all get a healthy filling of white zin. Someone falls into the classic trap of asking me to make drinks for them that night, and as I hand them their first rum and coke I smile, because while their morning will be utter shit, tonight is gonna be a real good time for them.

Ozzie bursts into the kitchen announcing he has a batman tattoo. For the third time that day.

Cole and I get a bit restless and take the necessary steps to set up the beer pong table. The same 20 cups we've been using all year get picked up off their various locations throughout the floor of the living room and placed on the table with care. The same nasty pitcher that's been sitting in the living room collecting dust between weekends gets filled and then dispenses water to the 20 grimy red cups. Cole and I look at each other and instinctively chant TEAM PULLMAN, our signature phrase we utter before every game, that almost guarantees we will lose. Blake and Ashley volunteer to play against us, and after knocking them down to 4 cups against our 8, Ashley goes on a three cup streak, and Blake hits and island, Ashley then does the same, and in one fell swoop, Blake sinks the final cup with ease as Cole and I high five, again yelling TEAM PULLMAN.

The person who I'm making drinks for hands me their cup, and asks politely if I'll make them another. I smile and say of course, and make it just a bit stronger this time around. I step away back toward the seating area to see a game of Fuck the Dealer is a few turns in.

I sit down to join and am immediately handed the deck to become the new dealer. A few turns later I had plowed through two large cups of wine, and finally circumstances occur wherein I select the next dealer. After several more rounds of this, the game is concluded, and everyone is much more inebriated for having done so. The time is now around 9 or so, and a slight lull is felt. Some people head to the porch for a smoke, some stay inside for a slightly different kind of smoke, and the music takes a turn for the more relaxed.

9:30 arrives, and someone says "c'mon guys it's only fucking 9:30 let's rally." Easier said than done when the collective group began their consumption around 2pm that day, but we manage to pull it together making some weird batch of vodka/energy drink stuff that manages to put a bit of pep into everyone's step.

Bartender Sean's services are requested again, and another noticeably stronger cuba libre is served.

We sit around and yell conversations with each other over the raucous sound of the music that is now vibrating parts of the house. Ozzie is sitting straight up on a couch, somewhere between sleep and consciousness, letting out a noise every once in a while in response to conversations going on in the vicinity.

The person I've been making drinks for all night approaches me and grabs me by both arms, looks me dead in the eye and says "ca I ha a nother wun?" I ask if they're absolutely sure they want another drink, as I turn around to see Ozzie has returned from the dead and on his way to grabbing another keystone ice. Their response was essentially that if Ozzie can keep going, so can I. So I grin yet again and prepare their 4th cocktail. I help myself to another cup of wine, long since having lost track of how many times I'd filled the plastic fish cup that I drink out of.

Things continue on like this for a while, and suddenly it dawns on someone how hungry they are. They announce this to the group at large, and almost as if we all had one collective stomach, we realized that we too were in need of nourishment. People pull out their wallets to scrape together whatever meager amount of cash they happened to have on them, and we call in an order for two huge-ass pizzas from Pizza Perfection. As usual my financial contribution was a bit lower than most others, so to compensate I braved the walk to retrieve the pizza. Generally I'd arrive and whip out the wad of one dollar bills and pile of quarters I was handed. The person behind the counter sighs slightly but cheers up somewhat when she notices we scraped up enough to leave a small tip behind. I grab the pizza and hold it tightly against my chest as I use the top of one of the boxes as a mobile plate for my road slice.

It's on my way back to the house that I pause for a moment by the bridge which you cross in order to not have to swim through paradise creek. The night is completely still, and very quiet. I sit on a nearby bench for just a moment to take on the sight of the bridge, covered in Christmas-esque lights with a layer of snow across its walkway. The sky has an odd orange hue to it. The pizza boxes are warm in my lap. My phone buzzes asking where the fuck I am with the pizza. I chuckle and stand up and realize that in this one odd moment, everything in my life is completely okay. I'm not worrying about the impending fight with Mallory over something I don't understand. I'm not freaking out about the research paper due on Tuesday that I had yet to begin. I can see past the fact that I have twelve dollars to feed myself over the next week. Everything is just content, for this small moment.

I stumble my way the last three minutes back to the house where everyone is extremely excited to see the pizza. I convince the person I've been preparing drinks for to get some pizza into them, then I'll make them another drink, knowing full well that throwing a few hundred calories of pizza on top of all that liquor will make them fall asleep far before they have time to consume more rum.

The lady that was invited, for whom we were supposed to be on our best behavior for, is on the verge of laughter induced tears in the corner as Ben and Cole recount a story of one of their many snowboarding trips in which Ben did something... unsavory.

At this point, everyone is rather drunk and pretty damn full on pizza. The night has just a few minutes remaining as I half trip, half walk to the kitchen to get a huge cup of water. Perhaps this time I could prevent the hangover by drinking enough water, but after a while there's only so much that hydration can do to combat a 9 hour tour of poisoning one's body for the sake of fun.

I announce that I'm heading up to bed, and as I turn to leave I hear a collection of boos coming from behind me from those who have convinced themselves the night is still going strong. Ten minutes later as I come down to get ice for my water, I peek into the living room to see them passed the hell out, slumped next to each other on the big red couch.

I fall onto the mattress on the floor that served as my bed. Splotch meows angrily as I disturbed her precious kitty sleeps. Mallory mumbles something in her sleep as I gently move her away from the center of the bed. I kiss her on the cheek, roll over onto my back, close my eyes, and smile one last time that day. Because tomorrow is Saturday, and we're doing it all again.