She is, after all, the first person I dial when I'm trashed
The amusing scene for today was found during my trip to Brown, where I had gone to visit my cousin Joanna and my aunt, who was down for Parents' Weekend. I went down on the 9:40 train with Scarlett, Jo's best friend, who goes to Northeastern. She had a hangover the size of a small African nation and was operating on three hours of sleep post a night of talking to a cute boy from the New England Conservatory. I was not hungover, but had slept for two hours, and was dying for a smoke.
We got to Providence and staggered over to my cousin's room, where we found her emerging from the shower. As she went down to the bathroom to continue poking at her face in an attempt to extract a semblance of vitality from her alcohol-sodden features, Scarlett and I flopped on her bed and attempted to chat, while trying to think up ways to obtain masses of coffee. I was also halfheartedly writing an article for the Crimson, so my attention was not fully engaged. Scarlett, however, was cassting about for things to stare at disconsolately, and thus happened upon the condom wrapper on the floor.
All a normal course of events in a normal college student's life, with hasty removal of the evidence before the arrival of the mother (who otherwise would have discoursed at length about birth control.) Unfortunately, though, this was a bit of a shocking event for me, as my cousin had neglected to tell me of this happening for the first time a couple of years ago. I was roused by a mild feeling of surprise and happiness, then sad to be just that far behind the times.
Moral of the story: She met this guy at a frat party, he was ok hot, and we saved her ass before her mother came in. I then finished writing the article, and we staggered off to brunch, chugging coffee all the way. I got the vague story of The Big Event, late though it was. Pah.