You love taking shots with people you only know when alcohol’s involved. You stumble with them through a spinning world to a house you’ll never recognize once sober.

You dance with anyone once you’re inside. You don’t care. Men and women, straight and gay. As long as they keep a drunken rhythm.

Your favorite part of the night is standing outside on the stoop, a friend you’ve only just met teaching you how to light a cigarette and flick ashes to the ground. It’s difficult, but you manage.

The vodka fades, and you beg your friends. You only need one more dollar for a red plastic cup for the piss that passes for keg beer.

You wake up later, right thumb stinging from a burn. The faint taste of stale vomit fills your mouth, and you hardly remember how it got there. You wonder if you hit your head.

That’s okay.

You had a fun night. You’ll never have a night like that again, but it was fun, just once.

The next weekend, you do it again, and again.

Two months later.

You fail your first class.