Party Crashers

I guess it must have been about four years ago now that I was just entering my Sophomore year of college–what wonderful bliss that year brought me. I lived in a compound we called ‘The Dune.” Legally a brothel (with five women under one roof), my college girlfriends and I made the most of the massive and dark space. We decorated, added the typical ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signage, and used the George Foreman grill to make nearly every meal. There was the conservative one, the crazy one, the emotional one, the cause-conscious one, the storytelling one, and the one with the crazy boyfriend. We were truly a hodgepodge of amigos just doing our best to make it through.

The room I shared with my best friend backed up next to a neighboring house, where it was rumored the Bush twins were once arrested for being intoxicated in public. The male inhabitants were typical college/post-college partystars who played ridiculous music into the wee hours of the morning on a nightly basis. Since the quality of our ‘home’ was so good, I could feel the vibrations down to the sheets in my twin-sized bed.
It was my idea one night to go join in on their party (in comes the candid camera scene). But half of us were sorority girls, and we knew just the ticket to make our way in the door in-style: theme party. Micro jean shorts, bikinis, towels, a beach ball, sunglasses, and heels. It was definitely night and they definitely weren’t hosting a public event, though it always sounded like it. Besides, we’d never met these neighbors (and honestly haven’t really since) so we could go incognito, thanks to the costuming. We ‘stumbled’ over there (while I tried not to pee my pants laughing), pretending to be well into our partying evening so that the transition of five cats off the street walking into someone’s backyard pool party wouldn’t be so painful. Turns out we did a pretty good job. A group of guys (and one poor girl) welcomed us in gleefully. ‘Wanna swim?’ they kept asking. I threw off my towel and screamed ‘kowabangaaaa’ at the top of my lungs–I had already shocked my team members. Things escalated from there, with the men assuming we were pretty far gone and offering us shots of all varieties. We weren’t here for the shots, we assured them we had ‘had enough.’ As if our whole prank wasn’t bad enough, we renamed ourselves things like ‘Vicky’ and ‘Dot.’
Things escalated when ‘the conservative one’ gave me eyes that said ‘we need to bounce asap.’ They were pouring the zillionth round of drinks and insisted we ‘have some more.’ She took a half of the shot and said she ‘felt sick’….so we could exit. I was too far into my game-mode to quit now. ‘Man up, Beoch!!’ I yelled at the top of my lungs. She spit half of the shot out laughing. That was probably the only time I’ve ever referenced her as a female dog–but well worth it. We even took a picture with the rando’s.
Later that year we did the same thing to a Mexican family down the street–only they were swimming in the blow-up pool in their front lawn. Yes, we got in:)
I never back down on a bet.

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