We need to talk.
I'd like to tell you a story. It's a story of love. It's a story of loss. It's a story of life's hardships, of the lifelong bond between friends, and of a promising young girl who came to a tragic end.
For the sake of anonymity, we'll call her Sloppy McButterface. From the moment she arrived at Carnage Magellan University, Sloppy immediately became the talk of campus. Such beauty had never before been seen at CMU. Her porcelain skin was the envy of every girl trying to conceal a blemish. Her lush, flowing locks put to shame even the straightest and shiniest of Asian hair. Her graceful, perfectly proportioned body looked as though it must have been sculpted by the Lord himself, and gave every straight man on campus an overwhelming urge to take her back to his room, throw her on his bed, and have deep, meaningful conversation with her.
Oh yes. All the boys could think about was how badly they wanted to engage her in sweaty, passionate, meaningful conversation.
But despite her overwhelming physical beauty, Sloppy was a humble, kind-hearted soul. Well-spoken and mild-mannered, she knew exactly what to say to a friend going through a crisis. She always offered a dinner invitation to the creepy girl on the floor that no one liked, and even humored the computer science majors who likened her to their favorite WoW character.
Indeed, it seemed as though Sloppy McButterface was, both physically and spiritually, a perfect being. But much like your cleavage in a padded bra from Victoria's Secret, perfection is only an illusion. It's only a matter of time before the padding comes off and the truth is exposed.
The trouble began one Friday afternoon.
While walking through the halls of the student union, Sloppy ran into Lester McGinty. Six feet, two inches of pure, unadulterated man, Lester McGinty had caught her eye during the first week of classes, but he had been snatched up by another girl before she even had time to arch her back and suggestively thrust out her bosom.
Word on the street, however, was that Mr. McGinty was again on the market. And by "the street," I mean her Facebook news feed.
Sloppy unconsciously arched her back. "So any fun plans for this weekend?"
Lester stood silent for a moment, mesmerized by the tremendous amount of breast in front of him. "Oh yeah," he eventually mustered. "Actually I'm having a party tonight. If you don't have any other plans, you and your friends should come."
"Yeah, that sounds like fun," Sloppy said, her voice taking on the sultry tone of a phone sex operator. "I'll definitely try to stop by."
She couldn't have known what would happen at that party. How her life would be forever changed.
That night, Sloppy and her friends arrived at the party. Sloppy was already a little tipsy from all the tooth-brushing she had done before they left - in lieu of toothpaste, she had brushed her teeth with a bottle of Jack - and there was plenty more alcohol inside. They were all 21 of course, as underage drinking is entirely illegal and only practiced by a small number of teenage delinquents.
She made her way to the kitchen with her friend and filled a cup with some unidentifiable red liquid before taking a look around. "Where's Lester?" she wondered aloud. "I want him to see me in this outfit before someone spills something on it."
"Isn't that him over there talking to that girl?" said her friend, an alarmingly intelligent young man that we'll henceforth refer to as Rott Scosenfeld.
Sloppy turned to find six feet, two inches of pure unadulterated man chatting with what appeared to be 5 feet, 6 inches of skanky ho holding a beer. Her heart sank. "No!" she pouted. "How could he be interested in someone like that?"
"Well maybe it's not like that," Rott offered. "Maybe she's his sister or something."
But Sloppy couldn't be reasoned with. She gulped down the rest of her drink and made her way over to the liquor. Over the next half hour, Sloppy eased her troubled heart by going shot for shot with a member of the men's lacrosse team.
Luckily, they were both 21, as underage drinking is entirely illegal and only practiced by a small number of teenage delinquents.
"Don't you think you should slow down?" Rott asked, always the voice of reason in otherwise uncertain times.
"That's what she said," Sloppy responded before gulping down another shot of vodka.
"Well Lester's on his way over here right now, so at least wipe the rum off your boob." Horrified, Sloppy hastily stuffed a paper towel down her cleavage and turned around just as Lester got to the counter.
"Sloppy? When did you get here?"
She fought to keep steady on the ground. "Oh, you know. A little while ago. I would have said hi, but you looked like you were in the middle of a conversation."
"Oh yeah, that was my sister," Lester said. "She's in high school, but she's visiting me this weekend." Fortunately, Lester's sister was 21, as underage drinking is entirely illegal and only practiced by a small number of teenage delinquents. "Would you like to dance?"
Sloppy nodded weakly, and followed Lester out onto the dance floor.
"I'll be honest," Lester said while the pair both leaned with it and rocked with it, "I didn't think you'd show up tonight. I heard girls like you kick men to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger."
Sloppy giggled. "That's a myth. Some girls might like their men to look like haggard rockstars in their sixties, but I'm really not one of them." Sloppy was blissfully happy. And so she continued to dance and laugh with Lester, ignorant to the fact that six more shots of alcohol had yet to hit her system.
Twenty minutes later, that fact had become clear to everyone in the room.
What had started out as dancing was now Sloppy clutching at Lester's shoulders and wobbling on beat. Her porcelain skin was now so flushed that the two dollar hooker downtown had a better complexion. And her once lush, flowing locks were now sopping with sweat.
"Can you please stop doing that?" Lester asked, after her sweaty hair again whipped him in the face during what she thought was a sexy dance move.
Sloppy let out a cackle that sounded like the Wicked Witch had taken a brief foray into meth abuse. "That's what she said!" she screeched.
For the next twenty minutes, Lester patiently danced with Sloppy while she messily tongued his ear, slapped him on the chest, and claimed every comment he made was also "what she said."
Rott thought it looked like it was time to intervene.
"You know, Sloppy, I think it's time we get home." He grabbed hold of her arm and attempted to steer her towards the door. "I still have to write my article for SheCollege for tomorrow."
"Hey! Lester and I are dancing," Sloppy protested. "Just because you don't got no man doesn't mean you can cockblock. Besides, we haven't even kissed yet."
I have been told that timing is everything. And sometimes timing can be so gloriously wrong that it seems as though fate has a cruel sense of humor. This was one of those times. For just as Sloppy McButterface leaned up to kiss her six feet, two inches of pure unadulterated man, her body decided it had had enough. Horrified and unable to do anything to stop it, the room watched as Sloppy McButterface emptied her stomach onto Lester McGinty's neck.
It was at that moment that Sloppy McButterface, the beautiful humble girl, died, and Sloppy McButterface, the hot mess, was born.
The Moral of the Story
What should you take away from this tale? That a woman's body is not equipped to handle as much alcohol as a man's? That your gay best friend is usually right? That when you feel an uncomfortable rumble from your belly, you should direct your face towards the nearest trashcan, or at the very least away from your dance partner?
Yes, all of that. And so much more.
You should recognize that alcohol is a social lubricant, and just like regular lubricant it can help make things easier and more fun. But too much lube just makes a mess, and such is the case with alcohol.
At a party, surrounded by people, you want to be the girl who is confident, uninhibited, and having fun. You don't want to be the obnoxious girl who doesn't understand the meaning of tact. You don't want to be the messy girl whose dress has bunched up to her waist. Most importantly, you don't want to be the girl the police have to scrape off the floor when the party is busted up.
Just remember this lesson. Keep it with you always. Buy a terrarium for it at the pet store and put it on the dresser next to your bed so that you'll always be reminded:
Nobody likes a sloptart.