Why doesn't anyone want to late night with us?

I never knew what "Late Nighting" was until last spring-- my sixth semester in college, to be exact. As an underage drinker, I would always get to the bar early, when I knew the bouncer would be easier on my fake ID (Naima from West Virginia, you ethnic goddess sent from heaven, thank you.). An 11pm arrival, combined with the fact that I still had yet to learn how much alcohol I could consume without dying, usually meant that I was blacked out and "home" from the bars around 1am. I use the term "home" loosely, as my older, heavier-weight boyfriend would often return to his house around 3:00 to find me passed out in his bed spooning an empty bag of Quick Pita (I really wonder why things didn't work out between us).

When I got back from abroad last January, an allllllllmost 21-year-old single woman, my nightly habits changed quite a bit. Suddenly, I was drinking more responsibly (read: diluting my vodka drinks with Sugar Free Redbull) and was thus able to stay awake long after the Rhino lights came on. And so I discovered the beauty of the "Late Night."

The first time I stayed at Rhino until close (seriously, it was at the end of junior year) I became a member of a new routine that I have performed every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night since: the upstairs lights come on and everyone moves downstairs as slowly as possible. Then, everyone stands by the door until Sweet Caroline comes on, we all sing along, and then the night is officially over. We turn to each other and ask "Where are we going????" and attempt to figure out our next move (after we all get food, obviously).

Late nighting, truthfully, is my favorite part of a night out. All the best stuff happens after 2am, especially when this "stuff" includes Tuscany Pizza, Natty Light and 90's pop hits. Trying to make out with a boy? Bring him to late night. Trying to get rid of a boy? Bring him to late night.

The best late night The Coop (a name I gave to my house a year ago that has yet to catch on) has ever thrown involved a drug dealer named DJ (who was looking for, not selling, drugs-- he left disappointed), a flasher, a large Domino's pizza and six jars of Queso smashed on our back porch.

Seriously, the possibilities are endless.

This leads me to my question, and the root of this post: Why doesn't anyone want to late night with us?

For the past umpteen weekends, myself and all of my (super hot) roommates have stood on the Rhino stairs shouting "LATE NIGHT AT OUR HOUSE!!!!!" inviting anyone and everyone in Georgetown to come hang out with us.

Without fail, no one shows up.

We have all the makings of a good party: food, beer, girls, music... we even invested in a strobe light.

And yet, every night, the six of us end up falling asleep alone over a half-eaten (ok. fully eaten.) box of cheesy bread.

Last weekend, two of our guy friends showed up, but they promptly fell asleep too.

So, if anyone in Georgetown is reading this, please come late night with us this weekend. We promise to provide beer and good company, and will do our best to stay awake. Seriously-- you're invited. (Unless you're DJ the Drug Dealer... he is unanimously banned.)

Why I Stopped Writing

I stopped blogging for a really, really long time after a potential employer called my work "offensive and unprofessional" when I showed it to her after an interview. I was so embarrassed  I deleted the e-mail immediately and never told anyone about it (seriously, this is the first time I've even admitted it to myself). The whole thing made me question the kind of writer I want to be, and for the last year I have been trying to find a new voice that hopefully wouldn't repulse anyone trying to hire me.

The problem, though, is that my voice is who I am. I am honest and crude and sometimes say things that make people judgmental or uncomfortable-- but at least I am entertaining. I have been warned against becoming the "next Taylor Swift" who publishes her feelings for all to see, and have been asked by boys I've hooked up with to "promise not to write about them." While I can swear to maintain the anonymity of these boys (trust me, in most cases I would prefer to forget their names), I can't pledge not to laugh publicly at their expense. I get myself into a lot of terrible situations, both with boys and otherwise, and really the only way to deal with them is to laugh about them and hope that others laugh along with me.

Watch this video, which a friend sent to me after my own similar sexual mishap, and realize that if Louis CK's wife can forgive him for this-- anyone out there will eventually  find it in their hearts to forgive me, too.

In the spirit of my last semester of college, I pledge to blog regularly and honestly, and hope not to offend any of my readers (do any of you still exist??) along the way.

Welcome to Senior Spring

Laying in my twin bed, coming off of the first Rhino Wednesday (is that still a thing?) of the Spring, I am really, genuinely happy.

True, spring syllabus week is always one of the best times of the year. Everyone is tan, rested and happy, and has forgotten about how much they hated each other during their caffeine-induced finals week misery. Nobody has work yet, and all we really have to do is get drunk and say "How was your break?!?!??!" for nine days straight.

But still, this time things feel different.

When I first walked into the bar, a girl a barely know had 40 tequila shots lined up on the bar and was handing them out to every senior she could find. Then, I split the rest of the night reminiscing with my freshman year best friend and making up with my freshman year worst enemy.

Everyone, regardless of who they've been for the last four years or who they plan to be in six months, has the same "let's-make-this-count" attitude, and I am seriously, seriously into it.