"Come on, Bob. Let me get something to drink."
Over the course of the past 2 hours, he's had 3 and a half 40s (the other half of which now drips down the stairs--at last check, the river of Miller had trickled down to the 3rd floor), 5 shots of SoCo (doing his best Janis Joplin, it would seem) and God knows how many shots of Jagermeister. I wasn't about to let him have another 40 anytime soon. I don't know how to spell his words phonetically, but trust me, he wasn't as well-spoken as I write this.
"I'll get you a root beer, but you're done for the night." We started drinking around 7; he sipping a forty, me with my (weak) cosmos and screwdrivers. The plan was to get me tipsy/drunk for the first time, so we were going to stay in, bond and watch television. You know, stuff all good roommates do when they're getting sick of their suitemates and of the other people on the floor.
Unfortunately, we're sexy, we're cute and we're popular to boot, and over the course of the next hour we had scores of consorts from the dorm roaming to our room to join in on our carousal. At one point, there were 15 people in our
"Come on Bob. Let me have a drink. I'm really not, I'm not that drunk." He hadn't had anything to drink for the past week or two. He's been trying to quit smoking since school started (he has a crush on a girl 4 floors down who's adamant about only dating nonsmokers), and his weakness has always been dangling a cigarette in his mouth with a can of something in his hand.
"I don't think so. Prove to me that you can have another one. Why don't you wait for fifteen minutes?" I assumed he would pass out by then. In reality, it took twenty minutes, but he still didn't get another forty.
"Bob. Come on. I love you."
"I love you like a roommate. I love you like a gay roommate." He put his hand on my shoulder in a blatant attempt to forge a bond and maintain a connection (and maintain balance), his blood-shot eyes looking straight into mine, which probably weren't wonderful either--2 screwdrivers, 2 cosmos, and 2 shots (one of SoCo, one Jagermeister) was about how much I'd drank since I came to school, if not in my whole life.
"I love you like a brother. We can go make out, but just let me have the beer." He moved in, or rather, stumbled forward and knocked his head on my shoulder.
"I don't want to make out with you. I want you to go in the hallway and calm down a bit." He was more than slightly rowdy when tipsy, and most people had bid their farewells, though a few of the more sober ones were bumming outside our door, debating whether or not it was raining too hard to justify a house party.
"Come on, I love you like a brother that I'd make out with." Earlier in the day, the girl he's falling for and I were joking: I don't remember what I said, but she laughed and replied with "Oh Bob, I love you." I responded with "I love you too. You're like a sister, but one that I'd totally make out with."
He couldn't remember his name at this point, but he could remember a joke I made at lunch. I suppose that's saying something.
Oh, and don't worry guys. My bout of celibacy is still intact and I'm still rusted shut. Even though I was a sheet (or two) to the wind and could have blamed any indiscretions on the screwdrivers, I didn't.
As the fifteen minutes made their way to a close, he made his way to the toilet for a little 'worship,' though with a bit of blasphemy by missing the Porcelain Goddess altogether and settling for Lady Linoleum. He has the top bunk, and after his two attempts I had to help lift his legs onto the bed. Then I went into the bathroom and grabbed some towels so he wouldn't be vomiting on himself all night.
By then it was 10 o'clock, and I cried a little on the inside because I knew I was done for the night by proxy. I totally would have gotten wasted for the first time last night, but I didn't.