For the first time in three generations, Pinehurst Mansion felt vibrant and alive. The annual interfraternity council Halloween party packed the place with more students than a Psych 101 lecture hall. Sexy police officers danced with black and white striped prisoners. Vampires necked with mobsters, their plastic tommy guns forgotten in dark corners. A neon green liquid flowed liberally from a punch bowl bigger than a laundry basket.
I swam drunkeningly through the ballroom floor, tripping over my own feet, hoping to find a bathroom or at the very least a rough equivalent. I had hoped that tonight I would finally profess my infatuation to Keri Wilson. Elegantly, of course, with poetry, song, or one of the other sickenly sweet romantic devices that I had concocted. Instead, I got drunk and put it off for another day–the right day–I told myself. Some day when I didn’t need to find a place to puke. (more…)