It was late February and my friends and I had become increasingly sick of our unsatisfying hookups. The girls (around 50 in total) on our floor had slowly gone from resembling mid-caliber, East Coast, prep school sluts into foot soldiers in the Orc army from Lord of the Rings.
There was one girl, however, that always caught my eye. She resembled Sarah Silverman, in a way that doesn’t make you want to beat yourself comatose. I only knew her through her best friend, who was one of those girls you are really tight with the first week of school, then slowly start to realize has bad breath or demons in the closet (e.g. is on the crew team and squats more than your middle school wrestling coach).
I’ll get to the point. On one typical lazy Saturday night, my friends and I started out the night with a usual pregame. This was followed by our trek to the bars and house parties. Later on in the night, I caught the eyes of the girl, and we began to chat. One thing led to another, and my roommate was subsequently led out into the hall to ponder his decision to choose me as his roommate.
This girl and I went at it. It was nothing out of the ordinary, although this girl valued her chastity, so sex was clearly out of the question. After a good time, we left my room, and I walked her down the hall to her room. While saying goodbye, I went to wave, and noticed what looked like pizza sauce coating my hand. The door slams. I slowly began to realize that Curt Schilling had not given me his sock as a hand-towel, but rather, this girl had victimized me. I raced upstairs, only to find my roommate doubled over in a mixture of laughter and distress at the state of my Wes Craven slasher-film sheets.
I was too drunk to clean them and passed out on them (not before showing almost everyone within hearing distance). My friends and I nicknamed her “blood-sheets” for the rest of the year.
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