It’s Friday night. The pinnacle of debauchery, tomfoolery, and subsequent walks of shame for twenty-somethings everywhere. Am I out at a club? Am I doing lines of coke off a model’s hips? Am I in the middle of winning a dance-off between myself and the Olsen twins?
I’ll leave it to your imagination. But it’s quite possible that I’m sitting in bed with an adult beverage and a jar of pickles. That I’m listening to both a Billy Joel record, and my drunk roommate belt out Rihanna songs from across the hall. It’s quite possible I’m wearing a pair of boxer shorts stolen from the last guy I dated, and a shirt with Marilyn Manson’s face on it. That my plans for the evening include ignoring all phone calls, text messages, and knocks at my door from the huge crowd of guys outside who are begging to take me out.
If things go as planned, I’ll be asleep by midnight and hopefully dreaming about a world where Rihanna songs don’t exist.
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