HighbrowFebruary 12, 2013 at 10:23 pm

Dispatch: Vagmons Downtown

10:00 p.m.: Receive text: “are you going to cunt party?”

10:01 p.m.: Ignore text. Continue to meet single fathers on Tinder.

10:05 p.m.: As of now, I have spent the last two hours on Tinder. Need to meet a freshman boy to swipe me into Commons on Valentine’s Day. I’m a hopeless romantic.

10:10 p.m.: Roommate enters. “You need to be social tonight. We’re going to the Vag Club downtown, wear something that says ‘I’m a downtown girl that likes to go down.’”

10:15 p.m.: Examine my wardrobe of identical tight black dresses. Usually, I spend my Thursday nights making bedroom eyes at various Drexel Dragons at Blarney, but I can’t miss a genital themed downtown. In fact, I really can’t miss a genital themed anything.

10:40 p.m.: Arrive at European friend’s Radian pregame.

10:41 p.m.: MWAHHHHH and MWAHHHHH. Let the face kisses begin.

11:00 p.m.: Listen to Spanish music. Need to get in the mood for foreign bros… jokes it’s Lil Wayne.

11:01 p.m.: They are drinking Fisher Fine Arts colored Sloeberry. What is Sloeberry?

11:02 p.m.: So berry sloe but so berry nice mmmm. It’s an alcoholic version of children’s Tylenol. Tastes like corruption. Bring on the Sloeberry.

11:30 p.m.: Arrive at Rumor. Hundreds of chic Penn scenesters push each other to get into the elusive and exclusive club.

11:37 p.m.: Theta pledge simultaneously pushes her way to the front of the line and smokes a cigarettes. Jaded aggression-so chic, so downtown.

11:45 p.m.: We are greeted by a pledge dressed as a vagina. Face kissing is exponentially more sexual.

12:05 a.m.: Enter the VIP room through a vaulted entrance. I’ve always wanted to go to Gringotts. I wish this place were full of house elves instead of frat elves.

12:10 a.m.: I am in a vault. There is only one boy a vagina suit. I was hoping for more vaginal decor. The bros are most likely taking style tips from the aquatic life of the BP Oil Spill. ALCOHOL. ALCOHOL. NOW. ALCOHOL. NOW.

12:15 a.m.: Casually purchase my 32 dollars worth of Long Islands. We’re not at Blarney’s anymore.

12:34 a.m.: Face kisses. So. Many. Face. Kisses. We must be at a Castle downtown.


12:42 a.m.: The ground is moving under my feet. Fuck. Not trying to walk on water.

12:43 a.m.: Dismount from elevated surface, need to abandon my purse to maximize athleticism.

12:50 a.m.: No credit card, no fake ID, no real ID, no Penn ID, no phone annddddddd no fucks given.

1:04 a.m.: See foreign friend. Face Kiss… but… on the mouth.

1:07 a.m.: “Want to take shot with me?”

1:15 a.m.: The Tiff takes a tumble. Literally eats the shit off the stairs. We’ll pretend we didn’t see that. Just like we pretend we didn’t hear your single. If only you were actually “Like a Bird.”

2:06 a.m.: Return to campus late night party. More drank por favor. I think I am living inside of a hookah. My mind is smoking.

3:00 a.m.: “Lube, lots of lube,” I heard myself saying, dispensing Morgasm sex tips to my new friends.

10:00 a.m.: Walk of shame. Barefoot. In the rain. Homeless man sympathetically smiles at me. His toothless grin is like chicken soup for my drunken soul.

5:30 p.m.: Return to club to meet mysterious angel/coat-checker named Sioban to retrieve my credit card, various identities and cell phone. Too bad I’ll never be able to retrieve dignity.

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