The weekend starts on Tuesday, right? Well, it does if you’re a senior. I went to the first official night of Senior Bar at Redline, a bar I haven’t been to since its heyday in the spring of my sophomore year, and quickly remembered why I’d stayed away. Everywhere I turned, there seemed to be a six-foot-tall man perspiring on me—and let me tell you, from that height moisture can do a lot of damage. Everywhere else I turned, I found people I haven’t spoken to since freshman year—quite frankly not the people I feel most comfortable getting hot and sweaty with. Awkward.
Wednesday was a senior bar night as well, this time at Cambridge Common, up by the quad. Highlights of the evening: losing a $5 bet on whether two friends were going to hook up (lesson: always err on the side of scandalousness); and watching my drunken guy friends pee in the streets during the long walk back to Quincy. I can only imagine that this happens every night to Quadlings, and I can only say I feel their pain.
Thursday night began at 8 p.m., celebrating a friend’s 22nd by watching The OC and drinking Cook’s from paper dining hall cups. When the champagne was gone I decided it would be a good idea to make myself multiple rounds of disgusting-tasting drinks from whatever random alcohol was lying around. I didn’t have any Coke, so I used those little strawberry-shaped candies with the hard outside and the soft inside as a chaser. Yummy.
At about 11 p.m. we went to senior bar at Brother Jimmy’s, a spot that is problematic for me since the 26-year-old general manager is my former high school track coach and most of the bartenders are friends from growing up. And by problematic, I mean that I get unlimited free drinks.
Apparently I walked home at 3:08 a.m.—a full hour after the bar closed—because it was at that point that I received a text message from a boy I’d been flirting with
that night, requesting that I “stop being gay!”—presumably by hooking up with him. Interesting approach.
Saturday night was notable mostly for its questions, offers, and strange requests, ranging from “Have you ever read Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles?” to “Will you pop this pimple in my back?” Both questions showed blatant disregard of Saturday night etiquette, which dictates that you only talk about how much you’ve had to drink, and then drink more.
Not to worry. They quickly picked up on my good manners and took a shot.
