CHAPTER ONE: Another Day in the Life of a College Hedonist/Procrastinator/Nerd

It’s those Wednesdays you wake up hungover next to the guy you’re cheating on your boyfriend with (even though you like the boyfriend more than you’re willing to admit) that makes you wonder if you’re self-destructive.

It was almost nine. I had a paper due for a class at noon. Almost nothing wakes you up faster than obligation.

I groaned and searched sloppily for a water bottle. My clandestine fuck-buddy, Edward, was still sleeping. His slender body was wrapped in my sheets, but I don’t know how he slept like that; it was spring, and far too hot for micro fiber. He was beautiful there, sleeping, unlike the hot mess I probably was.

I chugged water as he slowly woke up. Dizzily, I found my bra and underwear. When I bent down to pick up my skirt, my head swam in darkness. I chugged more water.

Water and sleep are the only solutions for hangovers. Promise.

After I slipped an old Dropkick Murphys tee over my throbbing head, I grabbed my bag. I reeked of lube, sweat and cigarettes. Everyone, if they stood close enough to me, knew what was up with that smell. It’s distinctive.

“You’re welcomed to stay however long you like. There are some more water bottles in the fridge. Take a shower. Get stoned. Whatever,” I told Edward as he stared at me. It came out colder than I intended.

Lazily, he sat up. The way he looked tempted me to take off that old tee and my little skirt and hop on his dick again. “Where are you going?”

“I have a paper due in three hours,” I said, softer this time. I put one a Marlboro 27 in my mouth, and then offered him one. We lit them together like a ritual for heathens.

Edward pulled me into him for a kiss. “Tomorrow night?”

“Can’t,” I said, swinging my bag over my shoulder, “Islamic medicine during the Renaissance guest lecture.”

“You’re such a nerd,” he said. He began loading a bowl. “Friday night?”

“Boyfriend’s coming over.”

That came out cold too. Edward smiled sadly. “Right. The boyfriend.”

I knew he didn’t want to date me, so I didn’t know why he was upset all of a sudden. I didn’t even kiss him before leaving, not even out of mild affection or gratitude. This is where you don’t like me.

As I walked to campus, still reeking but determined to continue a stellar record in history academia, I wondered if there was any way to tell a masochist from just looking at a person.

Here’s what I look like outside of a post-anal sex bedroom scene so you can decide: you’d probably guess I was seventeen. I look young. I have auburn hair, curtsey of my flame-haired German grandfather. An uncle of mine has the same color, but we can’t find him right now. He might be in Illinois; we’re not sure.

My cold and brilliant father is Georgian, but I look entirely German-Irish, unlike my beautiful younger sister, who looks exotic. I’m very jealous of it. I did get this oddness about my looks though, this strange way that makes it impossible for me to fit into crowds. I’ll never look good in heels and tent dresses, with my hair Pompadour-ed and hair sprayed. I’ll never look good on a frat guy’s arm (I tried that already) or dining with a neat and professional businessman.

It took me a very long time to realize this.

I still look in the mirror sometimes and see a strange-looking little girl, unworthy of love. Pain maybe, not but love. And maybe I don’t want love, masochist that I am. Maybe the lack of it makes me cum. Or maybe I’ve just resigned to my place and that’s what makes my pout and my cries give guys boners.

-

I was at the library, an hour into the paper on medieval urbanization, when I realized I had the worst UTI in months. Every time I peed, I wondered what the medieval woman would have done about them. I know they often sewed wool pads to their chemises for periods. But since they often drank wine or mead in place of water and also had the uncomfortable position of hardly bathing, UTIs must have been a thousand times worse for them.

Poor Eleanor, poor Christine.

Still, I felt like crying for how badly it burned. The bladder gods were punishing me for my bad behavior. I wondered when I’d be punished for real. Or at least emotionally.

There are few things worse for a college girl’s crotch than a bad UTI.

-

You’ve met my lover already. By two in the afternoon, he was probably walking to his Organic Chemistry class stoned. We never walked together or acknowledged each other on campus. I liked the clandestine part. It was hot.

At two, I was finished with an exhausting Humanities class I had to take. Normally it took me fifteen minutes to walk to my apartment from there, but since I had to pee so bad, I did this funny little walk/run home and brought down my time to seven minutes flat.

My crotch still stung when I came home to my roommate, Kate, crying and smoking a cigarette on the couch. Her black hair was disheveled and I noticed her shaking from across the room.

“UTI. Pee now,” I said as I sprinted to the bathroom. I got a little smile from her, but I knew as I squatted that it would be a long, emotional night.

You’re meeting Kate when she was almost as vulnerable as I was when you met me. She was my roommate freshman year in an all girls’ dorm that Dante should have probably included in the ninth level of Hell. We were one of those roommate success stories. We were both messy but not dirty. She calmed me. I entertained her She made me jasmine tea when I was sick. I stayed up ‘til sunrise the day of a final with her after she was dumped.

“Are you alright?”

Like asking someone who just fell off a roof if she was hurt. I don’t know why I bothered asking.

When Kate cried, she always gave a big sigh before she explained what was up. “I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?” I knew what it was about. Another stupid question.

“Travis.”

“What about him?” I sat on the couch and lit a cigarette.

“I just don’t know.”

This was going nowhere fast, so I let her cry it out for a bit. Travis was some hick who somehow captured her heart. I don’t know how. Kate listened to hardcore bands, but was an outright romantic. She believed this high-school drop out who owned land somewhere in Missouri and drove a truck was some sort of makeshift Prince Charming.

I’m letting you know now I’m an astrology nerd.

Kate was a Cancer. Moody, sensitive, optimistic. And they’re too romantic for their own good.

I had to be the voice of reason. Blunt, rational Gemini for the win.

“He’s an asshole,” I offered. “I know we say this about all the boys we date, but he is. He’s blown you off more times than I can count. And he can’t spell.” (She smiled at that.) “And he’s seriously obnoxious and an alcoholic.”

“Look who’s talking,” she said with a smile.

“Anyway, you’re too good for him.”

Kate signed. “I just don’t know about him. Cass, why do I like him?”

“Maybe because you want what you can’t have? Because you’re not supposed to want him. Because he’s handsome and mysterious,” I told her indignantly, like a lioness trying to talk sense into her innocent cub. I didn’t want to see her agonize over this guy again.

“Maybe,” she sighed. “I just don’t get it. I’m cute, right?” I nodded. “And I’m smart. And I’ve lost so much weight this year. And I’m really super nice to this guy.”

I took a long drag. “You are adorable. Problem is you’re too super nice to this guy. He’s abusing it. He knows he can hang out with you and fuck you and then not call you for two weeks. I’m not advocating playing games, but I’m saying that he’s obviously playing some.”

She looked at me optimistically. “So I should play them back? I can play hard to get.”

“No,” I said, “that’s not what I’m saying.”

She sighed.

“He’s not worth it. He clearly hasn’t matured past those games. Forget about him and his huge chin,” I said with a smile. But Kate just looked at me.

“I know, but I can’t.”

“You can. Give me your phone. I’ll delete his number.”

She immediately snatched it off the table. “What if he texts me?”

“He won’t.”

“He could.”

“He won’t,” I pressed.

Kate sulked. “Whatever. You never give guys a second chance. You drop them the second things get hard or they ignore you. Or the second you assume something. Which isn’t fair to them. Travis deserves a second chance. I really like him.”

Here I was, trying to rationalize with Kate, and she was bringing my relationship problems into the equation. And she was dead on about them. Roommates are notorious for seeing every fight you have with your boyfriend, hearing every middle-of-the-night-cry-fest and seeing every new boy you bring home from a party, thinking you’re fixing something. They know you too well.

I took one long, final drag before twisting my butt into this little vintage ashtray I bought antiquing. “I have some trust issues. But there are other guys out there. Come on, I’ll take you to my friend’s show. Or we can go to the bars.”

“You don’t meet anyone at the bars,” she said with a sad smile. “And guys don’t think I’m cute. They come up to you all the time.”

I challenged, “Who? Tattooers twice my age? Guys who cut my hair then go MIA for a month? Or maybe econ grad students with ex-girlfriend issues?”

(I’ll get to some of these lovely gents later.)

She lit up another cigarette. I bet she smoked at least half a pack that afternoon.

“I’m just saying you’re really pretty.”

“You are too,” I said, helpless to say anything else. “But beauty is obviously subjective. Plus, how many times have we sat around like this, wondering why we aren’t pretty or smart or kind enough? I doubt any of that actually matters if a guy is an asshole. Pussy is pussy is pussy, the more the better. We can look like Angelina Jolie, talk like Pericles and Hawkings combined and be fucking Mother Theresa and there will always be some little douchebag who wants something else.”

Another sigh. This one was more resentful, which is what I was going for.

“If it helps, Joseph hasn’t texted me all day.” Misery loves company.

“Yeah, but you’re cheating on him, Cass,” Kate reminded me.

“One time,” I said. She gave me a grating look. “Three times.” You can’t lie to your roommate. Edward liked to be slapped. Lucky Kate got to hear every slap.

I realized there was only one solution to this mess. I opened the freezer with firm resolve and looked at my options.

“Smirnoff, Maker’s Mark or Blue Moon?” I shouted across the kitchen. “I’m really not feeling beer tonight, but I’ll drink one if you do.”

Kate laughed. “Don’t you have a quiz tomorrow?”

I pulled out the Maker’s Mark. “The rise of cathedral schools can wait.”

“Have you studied at all?”

“Nope,” I said cheerily as I poured the golden liquid into two shot glasses. I set them both on the table and looked into Kate’s massive brown eyes. Peer pressure. “Indiana at Bloomington shot glass or the one from your Mormon friend?”

She pointed to the Mormon one. I smiled big and pounded the shot like it was water from the Fountain of Youth.