red-sox-win-world-series

2moms-0fucks  asked:

Because I'm a whore for post-"deadalive" I NEED to know how Scully told him she was pregnant AND that he was the father. So, list 1 "I'm pregnant"

haha, the phrasing of this ask is hilarious. I am in the middle of another fic for you too by the way (writer’s block) but until then, hopefully, this satisfies your post-deadalive angst need :) btw it strays from canon, because I refuse to believe that timeline and the way they handled things. 

p.s. - I re-watched the scene where he wakes up for inspiration and it’s absolutely gut-wrenching, Tony Wharmby (who directs NCIS) directed this scene beautifully. 

“I’m Pregnant”

“Did anyone miss me?” he whispered into her hair 

She laughed into his chest, tears soaking his hospital gown. She lifted her head to kiss his shoulder and clutched his hand tighter. She fell asleep on his chest minutes later, the sound of his heartbeat no longer just a dream or wishful thinking, but reality. 

Mulder couldn’t fall asleep, he felt like he’d been sleeping for eternity. Even if he did fall asleep, he wouldn’t be able to shake the images digging holes into his active brain, tarnishing what remained of it. So he lay there, breathing in her scent, running his thumb of her knuckles, brushing his lips over her head. He never wanted to leave her again, things were about to change, he’d decided. No more X-Files, no more FBI, no more running. He was going to take her away, get out of here, live a normal life together; they deserved it. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft twitch near his thigh. It was an odd twitch, more forceful than a shiver, but softer than a hit. Something was kicking against him. 

He shifted and lifted his head above Scully’s to get a better look. Her shoulders looked bigger, wider, so did her hips. Odd. He reached to the spot where he felt the movement in his thigh, but she woke up at the commotion. He took one look at her and his heart swelled. 

“Hey” Mulder said, his voice still a little dry 

Scully smiled and bit her lips, but the tears escaped anyways. He brushed his thumb over them and looked at her, her eyes said everything they needed to. And so did his. They always communicated with their eyes. Her blue ones were shining with relief, and something else, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Uneasiness? Anxiety? Confusion? 

She sensed him analyzing her and lowered her head, her hair falling over her face. He went to tuck it back, but she moved. She reached over to the table across from them and gave him some water. 

“Here, drink some water. It’ll help your throat.” she said softly

He nodded and lifted himself up to a sitting position, grimacing in pain. He half-laughed, half-grunted. 

She held the straw up to his mouth, and he put his lips around the tip, brushing them across her fingers. His lips and her skin met for a time shorter than a nanosecond, but enough to send a shiver down her spine and transform his eyes from hazel to dark green. 

He swallowed, maintaining eye-contact with her the entire time. Mulder really wanted to cut to the chase here. She moved the cup of water back to the table and lifted herself a little, resting her forehead against his. He didn’t miss the extra effort it took her to move, but it was quickly forgotten when she brushed her lips against his. 

For the first time since he woke, he felt alive, truly alive. He leaned forward, kissing her harder. She moaned as his tongue traveled over her mouth, banging at the gates for refuge. When she invited him in, it took all the power in him not to rip his IV out and wrap both arms around her. His body betrayed him though, he moved back, unable to breathe anymore. Suffocation never felt so good. 

She leaned her forehead against his again, “I missed you so much”, she whispered with wet lips and flushed cheeks. 

He nodded, closing his eyes and breathing heavily. She moved back into the chair and he threw his head back against his pillow. He twisted his neck to the side, looking at her with a sly smile that made her head drop in bashfulness. 

When she lifted it back up again, her eyes were more serious, the redness in her cheeks gone. She fixed her posture and folded her hands in her lap like the proper agent she was. 

“Mulder. We have to talk.” 

Her tone made him nervous, so he mimicked her posture and waited for her to speak, or at least tried to. 

“Don’t tell me, I can’t walk can I? No function in my lower extremities?” he asked, trying to dissipate the tension in the room. 

She gave him a small smile. 

“Oh god Scully, I can live without my legs, but what about.. him. The other guy.”

She smiled again, “Based on his response during that kiss, I think he’s fine”

He chuckled and grabbed her hand, going into a classic Mulder ramble that made her heart twitch in nostalgia. 

“Scully, what is it? Just say it, did you kill my fish? Did you meet someone else? Is it Frohike? That tiny teapot was just waiting for me to dissapear wasn’t he? Oh God Scully tell me it wasn’t Skinner? No, I can tell from your face it definitely wasn’t Skinner. Holy shit, did the Red Sox win the World Series? Scully tell me it ain’t so! Put me back in the coma if it’s true, I couldn’t live in a world where-”

“Mulder, I’m pregnant” 

Silence. 

“Well, look whose awake!” Dr. Luongo said, walking into the room with impeccable timing. 

Keep reading

Number 2 - Baseball!Calum [SMUT]

Requested by Anonymous

Summary~ Baseball player!Calum doesn’t like people wearing his number on their baseball merchandise but when he spots you in a bar after a game, he makes an exception

A/N: I’m making most of this up and in reality I know fuck all about baseball

Word Count - 1217

You were brought up on the game, a born Red Sox fan, since the day you could set foot into the stadium you’ve pretty much never missed a game, your grandfather, then your father, now you’re on your own, well kind of, you’re never alone among your “Own kind” so to speak and the stadium folks know you.

Every week you don your freshly washed an ironed Red Sox shirt and make your way down to get use out of your season pass. Lucky number ‘2′ - Calum Hood.

“[Y/N] we were worried you wouldn’t be here,” Stan on the door grns opening the just locked gate.

“Late home from work,” you scan through the season pass and log on.

“I think Lou still has your seat saved,” he slaps you on the back as you move along and you run through the stadium to your usual spot.

“See, I told you she’d be here, now move along,” Lou the snack vender waves you over.

“Thanks,” you grin.

“Can’t have you with abad view”

You’re quite the personality in the stands, the loudest mouth the Sox have got at their home game, especially when they win.

This game has you barely in your seat and when its all over, with a huge victory to the Reds your entire section erupts.

“To the bar!” someone yells and with that a bunch of people are piling out of the stands and to the local team bar not far away.

For that Saturday you find yourself sat on the bar surrounded by red sox fans, chanting and singing the night away. It get’s to about 10pm when you see a ruckus in the crowd and suddenly you catch sight of the genuine number 2 shirt and Calum wearing it. He has a guy by the collar.

Suddenly you hear him yelling, “Two is my number, my business, not some bloody fashion statement”

The bar goes silent as the guy slides his shirt off and drops it to the floor, “Well then you better see to her too”

The finger points to you and before you know it Calum Thomas Hood is making his way to you.

“Seems we have a problem here..” he mutters quietly.

You look down and then into his eyes, “You want me to take my clothes off?”

A few people start laughing around you.

He doesn’t answer but turns to the barman, “Jack and coke please”

“I didn’t know you were so against people supporting your team,” you say to him a small while later when he’s sat on the bar stool next to you.

“I’m all for people supporting the team, the logo, the banners, the hats, just not my number,” he takes a sip.

“Why make an exception for me then?” you ask.

“Because, if someone found out that I got a girl to strip becase she was wearing my t-shirt number I’d have girls waiting at the locker room wearing them,” he laughs a little.

“Didn’t peg you as the big headed type”

“I’m not, it’s just the truth,” he laughs again. “Besides, isn’t there another number you could wear on your shirt, surely James Hicks number 6 is more deserving of your affection, isn’t he like 37th hottest guy inn sport?”

“You think I’m just here as some kind of groupie..”

You slide off the bar and drop to the floor, now a lot shorter than him still on the stool.

“Aren’t you?”

A little offended you smirk a little and turn to him, “Want to come back to my place?”

He smiles a little, “Let me grab my coat”

You’re majorly conflicted as Calum flirts with you, his hand resting on your knee in the back of the cab, he’s been your favourite player since he joined the team 3 years ago, when he made the winning hit in the world series he took over the spot of James Hicks in your organised hierarchy of baseball players.

You flip on the lights as you walk into your apartment and Calum’s hand stays permanently fixed to your waist.

“This may be a little creepy,” you say, leading him to the room he assumes is your bedroom.

“A little creepy can be good”

When you turn on the light he is met by the sight of your lounge room, with reclining sofa and tv opposite, set against your baseball memorabilia collection.

“Oh”

You wander over to the shelves and pick up a popcorn bag, “1999, my first red sox game, I was 3

“2004,” you pick up a hat, “The first time the Sox won a world series in 86 years, I was 8

“2007,” you reach for a signed picture. “They regained their title from 2004, I was 11″

“I get it,” he rolls his eyes.

“No,” you stop him, “2013, The Boston Red Sox win their World Series title once again, I remember this one well because I was 17 this time, they win with an almost record playing hit from newcomer number 2, a risk in the first place but it played out well, flew straight into my hands”

He wanders across the room and takes the ball from your hands, “Definitely not just a groupie then”

“No, not just a groupie, I’m also a huge baseball fan”

Your faces only seem to be a matter of centimeters apart, then millimeters and suddenly your lips are together, his tongue running along your bottom lip to kiss you properly. Your arms snake around his neck and his hands slide down your sides rubbing the skin that’s visible on your hips. He sits down on the arm of the sofa and lets you slot yourself in between his legs.

As his hands slide up your back and under your shirt you mutter against his lips, “Now you can get what you want”

“And what’s that?” he pulls away to ask.

“To get me out of your number,” you reach down and pull of your shirt.

His head falls into your neck and his kisses down your collarbones, grinding against your core. You shove his chest so he falls back onto the sofa and you manage to straddle his waist. You rake your fingers over his skin and help get him out of his shirt too before unbuckling his jeans His fingers fiddle past the rest of your clothes until there’s nothing left between you.

An endless stream of curses flows from his mouth as he takes you by the hips and eases himself into you, bucking his own hips at the contact. Your back arches as a knot builds in your stomach and you moan out.

He continues until his breathing gets heavy and the two of you ride out your highs and fall down onto the sofa down into a mess of tangled limbs on the sofa.

The next morning you wake up, alone, and sad at that realization. Then as you look around you notice a note hung over the baseball;

I had to go to practice, but I’ll be at the bar again at about 5pm
Also I left you a present.

Confused about the note you walk out into the first room of your apartment to see your No. 2 tshirt laid out next to a larger version.

——————————-

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Masterlist // Request

Some Things I Learned My First Semester of College

1. Just because someone desires you does not mean he values you.

2. Boys who kiss you within the hour they meet you don’t care about anything other than your body. They simply do not care about you as a person.

3. The double standard is real. Fraternities (or final clubs, if you’re talking about Harvard) are full of boys whose only goal is to sleep with as many girls as possible, and they are celebrated and congratulated for it. The same colleges are full of lonely girls who have been ostracized by their friends and peers for doing the same goddamn thing.

4. Even if you’re not planning on staying out the whole night, always bring a pair of leggings to put on under that party dress, a disposable toothbrush, and some emergency cash when you go out.

5. Never smoke pot while drunk. You WILL regret it the next morning when you’re more hungover than you’ve ever been in your whole life.

6. Figure out what kind of alcohol you like early on. Light or dark? Mixers or chasers? You don’t want to be that kid who doesn’t know what to order from the bar.

7. Figure out your alcohol tolerance early on. Trust me - it’s not sexy to act like you can outdrink anyone and then black out after one shot.

8. Don’t let guys at a frat/club separate you from your girls. It’s the divide and conquer method.

9. Designate one of your friends to be the semi-sober one when you go out. That way you won’t have to worry about texting your ex when you’re blacked out. Or about having to stumble home alone at 3 am.

10. Make up a codeword with your friends to use when you need to be discreetly rescued from that creeper who won’t leave you alone.

11. When a friend or dormmate knocks on your door anytime after 11 pm and asks if you want to go get pizza, always say yes.

12. College is more about the memories/experiences than the grades. If your friends are having a heated discussion about feminism in your room, you should by all means drop the reading for tomorrow’s class and join them. If you have a midterm the day after the Red Sox win the World Series, you should say, “Fuck this!” and hop on the T with your friends to join in the celebratory riots outside Fenway Park.

13. Time really can heal all wounds.

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Top 100 Movies (in no particular order)

96/100: Fever Pitch

I am not the biggest baseball person, but I loved going to some games as a kid, and I think that this movie made a Red Sox fan of me.  Jimmy Fallon is so hilarious and lovable in this movie.  Seriously they managed to make a romantic comedy where the premise is that he is too unto baseball and it affects their relationship.  What makes me happy is that they did not make him do something so terrible that there is no real way that they would be  able to make it past it.  They kept the realism enough that the movie makes me really happy and a totally believable love story.  Also how awesome is it that during the filming of this movie the Red Sox ended up winning the world series?!  The footage in the movie is really from the field when they won!  How incredible is that?!

“ You love the Red Sox, but have they ever loved you back? ”

I have this weird theory why V grew his goatee. So in Dark Lover, Wrath says V recently grew it & Dark Lover was written in 2005. In 2004, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series after 86 years. And you all remember when V & Butch started with Red Sox fanboying about 2004 World Series, when someone said if V starts with Jason Varitek he’s out. So I kinda googled Varitek, and OMG VARITEK HAS A FUCKING GOATEE!! So… yeah… I kinda think V grew his goatee in honor of Varitek and Red Sox winning the 2004 World Series.

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The Boston Red Sox winning the World Series in 2013. Matted in Red, of course.

Let me tell you – this was the most challenging test of my patience. I didn’t think I was going to make it and I am SO glad it’s done.

Created with chalk and charcoal on 16x20 gray paper. Start to finish, somewhere over 150 hours.

–P.S. The original was commission so it is sold, but prints are available at my Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/listing/201669121/boston-red-sox-giclee-print-ready-to

David Duchovny’s Bucky F*cking Dent reveals a literary star

James McNamara / The Australian

May 21, 2016

Reviewers of David Duchovny’s first novel, Holy Cow, slung plenty of ink about him being an actor. Fair enough — Hollywood is cool. But just behind that is a whiff of “celebrity having a go at writing”, which is invidious because, with a pair of Ivy League literature degrees, old mate Dave has a better literary pedigree than most of his reviewers. So I’m not writing about Duchovny the actor, because that isn’t relevant: Bucky F*cking Dent proves that Duchovny is a novelist, and a damn good one.

Holy Cow was a wry, piss-takey fable; deeply enjoyable, but jokey enough that Duchovny could have stepped away, pride intact, and dismissed it as a lark if it had tanked. With Bucky F*cking Dent, it feels as if Duchovny has sat down at the proverbial typewriter, opened a vein, and bled.

The result is an excellent literary novel of wit, heart and emotional depth.

Set in 1978, Bucky F*cking Dent is about Ted Lord Fenway Fullilove, a “quirky dude with a BA in English literature from Columbia who works as a peanut vendor in Yankee Stadium while he slaves away on the great American novel”. Ted’s life isn’t glamorous; he’s fat, clad in old tie-dye, drives a Corolla with plastic bags for windows, and smokes too much weed in a crappy apartment. His closest relationship is with a Grateful Dead tape.

His prose is good but his stories aren’t: the heart is missing. “You write well. About nothing,” Ted’s agent says. When Ted’s estranged father, the magnificently profane Marty, is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, Ted moves home to care for him, helped by a beguiling “death nurse” and love interest, Mariana. A well-trodden narrative, you might say. But not the way Duchovny handles it.

The novel’s surface conceit is baseball. Whenever the Red Sox win, Marty’s health improves. But as anyone who knows baseball knows (i.e. not me), the Sox never win. So to keep his father alive, Ted plans to give Marty an elusive Red Sox World Series win by faking the results — replacing scores in papers, playing winning games on VCRs. The book’s dust jacket places this caper at the novel’s core, but it’s really just a McGuffin — a plot device. Duchovny’s novel is much darker and more emotionally complex than that.

Back in his childhood home, Ted grows steadily closer to a father he believed neglected him. Within their rude banter, Ted discovers Marty’s own deep frustrations: a would-be novelist, he wrote ads instead of books to support his family. Ted also learns that Marty’s long-term disengagement stemmed from rejecting his true love to stay with Ted and his mother. Discovering that Marty was a much better father than he had believed prompts Ted to unravel himself and confront his skewed life story, a process that quickens him artistically and psychologically. But Duchovny goes deeper still, into the big stuff: art, failure, loyalty, the persistence and fragility of love, mortality, grief, and life, the “final hopeless, glorious charade”. As Marty gets sicker, father and son are shucked of their banter and brought raw to each other, as flawed but loving men.

These emotional storylines are unfurled with the narrative skill of a screenwriter/director, but delivered in air-punchingly good prose. Within a passage, Duchovny silverfishes between wit and lyricism, blending highbrow and low, taking literature seriously and then poking fun from the other side of the sentence. Ted can observe his father “woken from his slumber, vulnerable, his dreams still clinging to him like … cigarette smoke”, then call him an “Ornery motherf..ker”. This careful tension in the prose between comedy and pathos communicates one of the book’s main concerns: the difficulty of men communicating love for each other. (I still punch my brother “hello”.)

Bucky F*cking Dent is an exciting novel. It’s also promising: Duchovny flexes a literary voice in a way that anticipates an extraordinary third book (no pressure, mate). There are still some kinks. Notably, while Ted and Marty are writers, they reach too often for highbrow allegories. As a literary type, I can’t say I’ve ever cited William Blake in my subconscious musings. But maybe I’m just missing out. This self-conscious erudition feels brittle, like Duchovny justifying his place at the literary table. But he doesn’t need to cite the great and the good for that, his writing does it for him.

Too much new American fiction is pretentious, all lip-synching the same mumblecore ­banalities. And as Ted’s agent says, “Life is too f..king short to read books like [that].” Duchovny has written the kind of novel I’ve wanted for ages: swaggering, literary, romantic, funny, warm-blooded, sad and true. Bucky F*cking Dent is very f*cking good — it’s rock ’n’ roll. And it’ll make you call your dad in the middle of the night just to hear his voice.

Whose narrative?

Abraham Riesman from Vulture.com recently asked me some questions and I gave him my answers. The interview, conducted in the Vulture offices and then in a cab rushing through upper Manhattan, is hopefully a decent chunk of somewhat interesting ideas and stories. 

Abraham’s questions were important – one of them so much that I decided to write this post to illuminate  it further. I don’t remember the exact phrasing, but Abraham asked me about gender and racial discrimination.

 

I’ll begin with some numbers.

 

An estimated thirty million gathered to bathe on Mauni Amavasya on 10th February 2013 during Kumbh Mela in Allahabad, India. 1989: an estimated five to nine million gathered for the funeral of Ayatollah Khomeini in Tehran. In 2004 an estimated three million celebrate Red Sox winning the World Series in Boston. A year before, roughly the same amount of people protest the impending US invasion of Iraq. The protest occurs in Rome.

Meanwhile, three to four thousand of people protest in New York and maybe fifty thousand in Los Angeles.

But three million in Rome.

 

Over two and a half million more people in Rome than in New York and Los Angeles combined. This defines one core lacking element in the current US climate: that of an organized, peaceful, widespread protest.

 

What if we are approaching a time – what if we are already in a time – when a peaceful mass protest can change things? Can it ever not? Look at Occupy. For all its failings, it established that Temporary Autonomous Zones can be erected and maintained; it established the now-worldwide narrative of 1% and 99%. Is changing the language, changing the operating system we are using, not enough?

 

It’s never enough, not until we are all living in a space where we no longer attack one another. But it is a step towards it.

 

Which leads me to Ferguson.

 

Are we finally waking up? In the past month there were at least five unarmed black men killed by police. The number of black officers on the Ferguson police force is three. The number of white officers is fifty. St. Louis ranks 15th in a list of the most black-white segregated places in the United States. The United States imprisons more people than any other country in the world, now over 2.4 million – an increase of over 500% since 1980. People of color represent 60% of all prisoners. We have 5% of the world’s population but we have 25% of its prisoners.

 

Mass incarceration became an American business. Predatory capitalism thrives on the disenfranchised. It’s the rule of the stronger – communities weakened by centuries of abuse can’t hold as well as the ones that often benefited from the abuse in the first place. To say that slavery is over is to close our eyes before the facts of mass incarceration in the United States of America.

What we are dealing with is a disproportionate labeling of people of color as criminals. If we go back to 1998 we see CIA acknowledge that the US government allowed in the 1980s for cocaine to be smuggled into our country. Why? This statement alone exposes the “War on Drugs” for the fraud that it is. Why did the Reagan administration escalate the War on Drugs as a response to a crack cocaine crisis that the Administration itself had created by allowing these drugs to flow into our country?

 

The narrative of the War on Drugs helped engineer the disproportionate labeling of people of color as criminals by generating officers who often genuinely believe that people of color are to blame for our government’s scheme. The narrative of the War on Drugs helped create a system where many people of all colors and beliefs believe that African Americans are to blame for the availability of certain illegal substances in our country. From there the narrative goes further, creating paralyzing fear that infects and twists our perception of the entire community into a horror image that does not reflect the truth of the matter.

 

I recently watched ‘The Unknown Known,’ a documentary about Donald Rumsfeld, who served as the United States Secretary of Defense under George W. Bush. The first time the director catches Rumsfeld lying is around the 17th minute. Later on, Rumsfeld says something that connects with this.

 

“You know a narrative gets built up out there over time.”

But then there’s another quote, from a different source–

 

“If you don’t like what is being said, change the conversation.”

When Don Draper, the protagonist of Mad Men, says this, we can read his statement in a few different ways. The reading I am interested in has to do with changing the narrative that gets built up out there over time.

 

Mad Men is a TV show that masterfully dissects many elements of the 1960’s. We follow the relative progress of women’s rights. It’s heartening to see certain aspects changing as others stay in close proximity to the Ice Age era. The pay gap today means women are paid roughly 77% of what men are paid. The pay gap is even worse for women of color, who make about 53% of white men’s earning. The pay gap grows with age and women face it in nearly every occupation.

 

How many of these facts were you aware of before reading this? I propose we begin with self education. If you haven’t read the New Jim Crow, that’s one book to read. If you haven’t read Sex Discrimination in the Workplace, there’s another. If you’re still waiting to see The Wire, watch it.

 

What else is there to do? Learn the system. Understand it. Spread the word about it. And don’t perpetuate the systems of abuse. This means we have to identify the root causes of these systems.

 

What do we require? To imagine systems that do not discriminate, to co-create these systems by becoming our own best examples, to work together, as a community.

 

What do I do to make sure I don’t discriminate? I am learning. I am telling you about this. I am examining my white male privilege. I am protesting, peacefully, and I am figuring out where my tax dollars go and how I can change that flow to make sure every single cent goes to the policies I believe in. Does it feel like enough? Not nearly. But it’s a start.

 

In order to affect deep change we require clarity and that can come only after we admit that the system does not work. What happens after we admit this?

We let some structures die so new ones can grow. 

We see what needs fixing. 

We require education reform. We require a military-prison complex reform. We require a complete dismantling of the War on Drugs. We require de-privatization of the prison system. We require total demilitarization of the police. We require peace, not violence, and definitely not indifference, which is just another way of allowing violence to happen. I say “we” but what I really mean is “I” because I am not here to speak for you. But if you don’t like what’s being said?


Change the conversation.

5

Number 44 up for the pitch! This is the Boston Red Sox at Fenway Park.

But would you believe this is only half the project? This is part one of a double commission! The next one is the Red Sox winning the World Series in 2013.

This one took about 110 hours and was created with chalk and charcoal on 16x20 Strathmore paper.

2

The Boston Red Sox have traded RHP Jake Peavy to the San Francisco Giants for minor league pitchers, Edwin Escobar and Heath Hembree.

Thank you for a great year in Boston and for helping the Red Sox win their third World Series in 10 years. Best of luck with the rest of the season with the Giants. You will be missed in Boston by fans and teammates.

The Inevitable Low Points of Your College Career

I use the term inevitable loosely.

Throwing up somewhere that isn’t a toilet.
It happens to the best of us. But if it was on someone else’s property you want to make sure you apologize and either clean it yourself or pay to have it replaced. Try to buy back the dignity you lost the night before with some manners.

Peeing somewhere that isn’t a bathroom.
Sometimes it’s a lawn. Sometimes it’s on a train coming from a riot after the Red Sox winning the World Series #NoHobo. Whatever. The bladder wants what the bladder wants.

Being THAT drunk girl.
Maybe you just spilled half a handle of someone else’s alcohol. Maybe you fell asleep on a couch at a party full of people you don’t know, in which case it’s not cute or adorable but embarrassing. Maybe you just announced at a party full of people that you also don’t know that you need to sit on a face. THAT drunk girl is a very complex character, capable of humiliating herself and her friends in ways that seem humanly impossible, but she makes a point of functioning outside of the boundaries of reality or social acceptability. Avoid being this girl as much as you can because after repeat offenses your friends will try to regulate your drinking, and nothing sucks more than being the friend on probation.

Failing a class.
It sucks, and you shouldn’t make a habit of it, but it happens and it’s not the end of the world.

The hookup that shouldn’t have happened.
When cheap, hard alcohol is in the mix, you’re bound to feel some urges down under. It’s science. And while I have an impeccable talent for suppressing said urges and dodging unfavorable situations, no matter how saucy I am, not everyone has that talent. Most people don’t, actually, and it’s likely that one night after six too many tequila shots you will find yourself in bed with a guy that kisses like a guppy and passionately caresses your elbows, and you will be filled with regret from the moment you go back to his room until you get drunk enough to forget it happened.

Trying too hard/being a freshman
Freshmen are terrible people, and not in the fun way. They come from high school, wide eyed and spread legged, certain that they are not only God’s gift to Earth but God’s gift to your school and that they will unquestionably be the HBICs of your campus. They religiously upload pictures of themselves with minimal clothing and maximum visible alcohol lest any of us forget how truly #srat or #college they are. Don’t get me wrong; to an extent, and in lesser doses, this behavior is acceptable. It’s like madras, seersucker, gingham and tartan. Alone and in moderation, they’re amazing. Mixed or in excessive quantities, they’re tacky and abrasive. If you’re a freshman, just accept the fact that you will suck for the next year and will probably suck exponentially less next fall.

Rubinoff/cheap alcohol that comes from a plastic bottle in general.
Nothing but evil comes from a plastic bottle, but it’s all the best kinds. You will feel disgusted in the morning and have many questions unanswered, but you will continue to drink it because you’re almost positive that you had the time of your life and for a very reasonable price.

Waking up next to a half eaten box of Dominos.
You will realize that the freshman fifteen can become a sophomore sixty in the blink of an eye, and that you probably need to get your shit at least a little bit together.

The hangover from hell on the worst day to have it.
Maybe you have something big due by noon. Maybe you have to be at work at the crack of dawn. Maybe you have a funeral to go to. It’s going to be a long day, champ.

Eating shit in heels while drunk, but luckily you won’t remember it.

You will do SOMETHING to your appearance that looks absolutely atrocious, but none of your friends will have the heart to tell you. Whether it’s a stupid piercing (cough cough septum) or cutting your hair yourself (for me it was the drawn on eyebrow phase), you are going to do something to yourself that takes you down at least 3 points on the 1-10 scale.

The Existential crisis.
We all wonder if we’ll be in debt for the rest of our adult lives for no reason. We wonder if we will ever amount to anything or if we’ll go on to live lives of mediocrity. We wonder if we’ll grow up to be someone that our parents can boast about. Things may not work out exactly as you’ve planned, but the path to success is rarely a smoothly paved road. Hard work pays off, even if not immediately.

Beer shits.
Hell hath no fury on your digestive system like a lot of alcohol, and to my knowledge there’s nothing you can do to avoid them. I think they’re God’s way of humbling us.