In the House

I could’ve written something last night, but I was at a house party instead.
For like 15 minutes anyway.
I was out with my buddy Shon and his girlfriend, and one of her friends was having a house-warming party next to the U.
Despite my better judgment suggesting otherwise, I was sort of excited.
I’ve been a little nostalgic the last few weeks as classes wind down and I think about all the things I’m going to miss about college and Reno, and, well, I’ve been looking to enjoy one last night of alcohol-induced neighborhood madness.

I’ve been enjoying the craziness that is college for five years now, and I’ve spent about the same amount of nights sipping down Jack and diets at 3 a.m. wondering how I ended up at Tonic as I have passed out underneath somebody’s lawn furniture after throwing up over their fence.
I love going out. I love bar hopping.
I like the idea of starting out somewhere with absolutely no idea of where I’ll end up. I like running into random acquaintances and sharing good times.
But, for me, nothing quite compares to a good house party. I know what you’re thinking and yes, most of them end up sucking. But no bar stories can compare to the crazy-ass memories I’ve racked up at house parties.
I’ve spent three hours in a closet hiding from the cops, I’ve run around the block with no pants on, and I’ve seen so many boobs playing beer pong that I can guess a girl’s IQ from the size of her aereolas.
Thing is, I didn’t realize the 16-year-olds acting like adults they admit into college these days are all stupid.
Honestly, I hope I wasn’t as stupid as the underclassmen when I was one of them.
First off, they were charging a cover and the keg was empty. Who the hell pays for foam?
Second, when was the last time anyone got laid wearing a marijuana leaf belt buckle? I saw like four of them.
Finally, there were about 100 kids jammed into a house and year made for about 60.
That kind of math obviously suggested that law enforcement would be making an appearance at some point.
I can already picture how that conversation would have went:

Police Officer: How old are you son?
Me: I’m 23, officer.
P.O.: (looks suspiciously) Can I see some ID?
(looks over ID)
P.O.: You realize that you’re allowed to go to bars, right?
Me: Yeah, I’m aware. Thing is I’m really into young girls and I thought I might find a few here.
P.O.: Son, are you just a pervert or are you giving me sass?
Me: Officer, sarcasm is the language of the devil, for which reason I have long since as good as renounced it.
P.O.: Thomas Carlyle, eh? How about this one. “Wit is the lowest form of humor.” Come with me.
Me: Son of a bitch, done in by Alexander Pope again.

Not wanting to have to tell the drunks and meth addicts in the clink that I was in overnight for getting outsmarted by a cop, I decided to bounce.
We went to the Wal, then to the Red Martini, then to China Diner, Reno’s finest 24-hour take Chinese establishment.
I ended up pseudo-drunk and definitely more tired than thrilled with the night’s events.
The end.

Latest Movie: Iron Man (it's okay, but it's no Transformers)

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