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Gay dudes make Guardian parties rock. They so skewed the de facto ratio that I could just bounce chick to chick whenever the circumstances forced me to move on. A sudden, unanimous vote conscripts First Girl to drive her "friends" right now? Next! Host breaks up the dance floor to yell at everyone for breaking shit, giving Second Girl time to remember she likes kissing chicks better? Next! Third Girl nearly bites off my lip (probably to defend against my terrible tonsil hockey) then disappears? Eh, that’s probably enough for one party. It was like all of the hitting-on I had done rolled over to the next girl each time; as it got later I needed to say less and less. Isn’t alcohol magic? Maybe. Mostly I’m just irresistible.

Speaking of booze, most Tritons would just whine about a broken tap and wait for someone else to fetch the next one. Fuck that, our combined newspaper powers helped us macgyver beer (a hammer to depress the valve keeping beer in the keg), making delightful golden cascades in the meantime. The good times were often nearly ruined by a belige-in-every-sense-of-the-word member of our delegation whose crimes against humanity included throwing our Cripple-in-Chief’s crutch into the pool. I'm an overgrown Boy Scout, so I fell in and rescued that drowning crutch. Fuck, if you have a house party with a pool, someone’s gotta swim. Stuck outside the rest of the night, I regrettably missed all of the sex-walking-in-on and closing time nonsense. Don’t know anybody less pretty than me, but I had a sloppy, wet, good time.

PS. Matt, turn on the pool lights next time. Asshole.