Navigating the realm of the drunken hook-up can be tough by yourself, but luckily Adelia’s around to dispense her seniorly wisdom (and save your dignity).
By Adelia Mohan
You’re dancing against me. You’re drunk. I’m dancing against you. I’m drunk. Aw yeah, I’m feeling you (literally). I sure don’t know enough about you to make this metaphorical, but I like your hair. Is this the moment when I turn around and we do the awkward face-to-face dance until you kiss me? You’re not supposed to kiss people you just met, right? Or are you? If America can raise the debt ceiling, why can’t I also dig a deeper hole, a deficit of standards, and fill it with actions done only under the cover of a dimly lit corner?
Have I triggered your memory and pushed you into a vivid montage of questionable decisions?
Try as you might to deny, Thursday through early Sunday morning, moments like this are routine. How did it become not only okay but traditional for us to search for mates while completely wasted face? When did it become acceptable to suction cup your mouth to _____’s mouth?
Even in light of this grey area, I’m not proposing a movement in the bar of standards. True Statement: any equation involving higher standards + whatever that means, will only = being alone. The 5 minutes spent licking the insides of another’s mouth is more worthwhile than spooning the teddy bear/tiger/animal your mother gave you for Christmas when you were 15. We can’t help the way we act. MTV ruined any academic image of college with their spring break specials–yes, we’re crazy, borderline alcoholics who will ultimately do irreparable damage, but that doesn’t matter until, give or take, 14 to 53 years from now.
Back on tangent…What I am proposing is something that will help you rectify some of those encounters you wish you could take back: Stranger Danger.
Making out with someone is our generation’s icebreaker, no more meaningful than a handshake. But you need to stop shaking just anyone’s hand; strangers have a 70% chance of being complete creepers masked behind a cute smile or pretty eyes or the shade of a proper five o’clock shadow. Not practicing stranger danger will land you in an STD clinic and stealing pregnancy tests from your nearest CVS (why are they so expensive anyway?) a month later, and who are you going to call? Not the crime’s counterpart, because A) You’d cut your face off before speaking to them again or B) You have no idea who they are.
If you want to save yourself, you must:
Practicing Stranger Danger will prevent you from inevitably ending up on top of a minivan, behind a café with only a recollection of what their shoes look like. If they’re rocking a nice pair, it won’t make your whoredom credible. Serial killers probably have nice shoes too.