Let us take a moment to analyze this most excellent photo. Shall we begin with the obvious? To the left, we have Beau, dressed as Bruce Springsteen with a Burger King crown of unknown origins, leaning in to make an emphatic point in conversation. This emphasis is easily seen in the two raised fingers of his red cup hand (also known as the “pimp hand”). Though the image catches a lateral view of his face, the glazed intoxication is still clearly visible in his eyes which only lends further credence to the impending accomplishment of his ultimate goal of the night.
To your right, we have a youthful Dangerous K in the years before she religiously watched America’s Next Top Model and thus knew how to take a flattering picture. You’ll note the unfortunate pink-and-white striped, bell-sleeved shirt with the horrible boat neck that only emphasizes what are affectionately referred to as my line backer shoulders. May I also draw your attention to the stick straight hair prevalent in the early 2000s? Oh, you noticed it already? Ok, don’t get so defensive. I’m not insulting your intelligence! I’m just trying to be helpful. Calm down. I can’t talk to you when you get like this. Can we move on now? Thank you.
The picture predates our coupleness by approximately 2 years, but that didn’t stop me from assisting him later in the evening in what should have been a girlfriend’s duties. No, I don’t mean hanky-panky. I mean puking.
When the time came, Beau dragged me along to the boy’s bathroom and proceeded to flop down next to the toilet whining that he couldn’t vomit because he was unaccustomed to it (being all that is man and such). So, I proposed several solutions that had aided my foul, foul college-self: taking a shot of the cheapest vodka left while dangling over the pot, inhaling a lungful of the interior air of the bowl, making pathetic hurling noises and motions until biological forces took over. He turned them all down since he was in such a good cross-eyed position to be choosey. I was growing impatient so I offered the last solution I knew of. One taught to me by a much wiser collegiate than I. I offered to put my finger down his throat. Naturally, this is what Beau selected because even back then, he liked to get under my skin.
Without the graphic details, that’s how the next 15 minutes panned out. As Beau was wrapping up his little session, a voice interjected from the next stall over. Someone had apparently witnessed the entire event and advised Beau, “Dude, your girlfriend is awesome. Don’t let that one get away.” We had a good chuckle, seeing as Beau’s actual girlfriend at the time was cowering back at the party with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or some other such atrocity of the alcohol industry. I didn’t take Beau’s following confession of love very seriously that night, seeing as he was lying prostrate next to a public toilet covered in his own vomit, but it would seem foreshadowing is not to be ignored.
To your right, we have a youthful Dangerous K in the years before she religiously watched America’s Next Top Model and thus knew how to take a flattering picture. You’ll note the unfortunate pink-and-white striped, bell-sleeved shirt with the horrible boat neck that only emphasizes what are affectionately referred to as my line backer shoulders. May I also draw your attention to the stick straight hair prevalent in the early 2000s? Oh, you noticed it already? Ok, don’t get so defensive. I’m not insulting your intelligence! I’m just trying to be helpful. Calm down. I can’t talk to you when you get like this. Can we move on now? Thank you.
The picture predates our coupleness by approximately 2 years, but that didn’t stop me from assisting him later in the evening in what should have been a girlfriend’s duties. No, I don’t mean hanky-panky. I mean puking.
When the time came, Beau dragged me along to the boy’s bathroom and proceeded to flop down next to the toilet whining that he couldn’t vomit because he was unaccustomed to it (being all that is man and such). So, I proposed several solutions that had aided my foul, foul college-self: taking a shot of the cheapest vodka left while dangling over the pot, inhaling a lungful of the interior air of the bowl, making pathetic hurling noises and motions until biological forces took over. He turned them all down since he was in such a good cross-eyed position to be choosey. I was growing impatient so I offered the last solution I knew of. One taught to me by a much wiser collegiate than I. I offered to put my finger down his throat. Naturally, this is what Beau selected because even back then, he liked to get under my skin.
Without the graphic details, that’s how the next 15 minutes panned out. As Beau was wrapping up his little session, a voice interjected from the next stall over. Someone had apparently witnessed the entire event and advised Beau, “Dude, your girlfriend is awesome. Don’t let that one get away.” We had a good chuckle, seeing as Beau’s actual girlfriend at the time was cowering back at the party with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade or some other such atrocity of the alcohol industry. I didn’t take Beau’s following confession of love very seriously that night, seeing as he was lying prostrate next to a public toilet covered in his own vomit, but it would seem foreshadowing is not to be ignored.
1 comment:
Now that is some serious relationship-founding business. Nicely done.
It frightens me to remember my past moments such as this, but they do exist. Oh yes, they do. Someday I shall share.
By the by, I could never get the finger-down-the-hatch to work. What's the secret to a successful point and purge?
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