Perhaps the greatest thing about morning classes is that you never have to attend them hungover, you simply attend them drunk. For some people, the last thing they want to do is get up after a week night of excessive drinking and go to school. For me, though, it's far more enjoyable to face the day's academic challenges if you've still got a buzz going. Think about it. You'll make friends with other students you previously acknowledged as nothing more than blank faces. You'll be super enthused by every point of your professors' lectures, and say things like "right on!" when you agree. You'll chat up the hot brunette that clear-headed you was far too intimidated to creepily tap on the shoulder. Overall, going to school with a fuzzy brain and minimal motor skills is far superior to, well, sobriety. The hardest part is simply getting there, which brings me to my anecdote.
It was ten o'clock on Friday morning, and I was hammered. Thursday is $1 margarita night at El Patron, and coincidentally, $1 beer night at a bar downtown. Like I said, it was ten, and I was hammered. I'm twenty-three and in college, so naturally the looming anticipation of piping, delicious coffee is the only thing that gets me out of bed. I got up, dazed and confused, and stammered into the kitchen. I guess tequila promotes ambition along with promiscuity, because not only did I plan to make coffee, but I decided to make it a mocha. That's right, I set the bar high. And then fall miserably short of it.
I had coffee grounds, an easy-to-use coffee maker, instant hot chocolate powder, and somewhere between six and eight brain cells. Looking back, this should have been a sure thing. The hot chocolate was instant, for God's sake, and all I needed to do was add it to the coffee while it was nice and scalding. But as we all know, a sure thing doesn't exist. So I poured the hot chocolate powder on top of the coffee grounds in the filter and pressed start.
About ten minutes of me stumbling through my room fiddling with various articles of clothing passed before I returned to the kitchen. To my immense disappointment, I found a thick cloud of steam, a disgusting, overflowing filter and a pot filled with half a cup of what looked like the Swamp Thing's bath water. I took a sip anyway. I gagged. I made another pot- strictly coffee this time.
Somehow I had managed to dress myself, inhale a granola bar and brush my teeth in just enough time to head out for the bus. All I needed was my coffee to accompany me. Clearly it would have been far too easy of a day if there had been clean thermoses in the cabinet, so I cheerfully resorted to Plan B, which was a red Dixie cup. This alternative actually seemed rather appropriate, as now my drinking accessory perfectly matched my Blood Alcohol Content. But looks aren't everything.
The plastic cup was scalding hot- thank God I had little to no feeling in my extremities when I first tried to pick it up. OK, this was a problem. I quickly reviewed the facts of which I was completely sure: I had to leave. I had to leave right at that moment. The coffee was too hot to carry. I could not leave without my coffee. Alright, no problem. My next move was to apply simple, good old-fashioned logic. My coffee was too hot, so I needed to cool it off. Easy, right? I put the Dixie cup of coffee in the microwave. That's right, the microwave. You're probably wondering what button I pressed. It was Defrost.
The coffee was hotter, the cup was deformed and the kitchen smelled like cancer. I poured the coffee into a different Dixie cup and ran out the door, beginning to feel a bit defeated at this point. It was obviously raining profusely, and I was a hot mess trying to gulp down as much caffeine as I could without drowning or scorching my throat. I knocked out half the cup on the way to the bus, but decided there was too much remaining liquid to waste. Weeks later I still couldn't tell you why I didn't just take the coffee on the bus with me, especially when such momentous drunken effort went into making it. It just seemed...wrong. But I refused to let the day oppress me, so I devised a plan to outsmart the weather. I hid my half-filled Dixie cup beneath a Toyota Four-Runner, tucked safely behind the back tire. After class I'd walk back through that parking lot and finish my drink, and it would be delightful.
I went to class, rode the bus home, and walked back through the parking lot. The Four-Runner was gone and the Dixie cup was a pathetic crumpled piece of plastic getting pummeled by rain. So much for delightful. Oh, and I puked on the bus.
So yeah, if you've got the choice, go to school wasted. And take a thermos.
It was ten o'clock on Friday morning, and I was hammered. Thursday is $1 margarita night at El Patron, and coincidentally, $1 beer night at a bar downtown. Like I said, it was ten, and I was hammered. I'm twenty-three and in college, so naturally the looming anticipation of piping, delicious coffee is the only thing that gets me out of bed. I got up, dazed and confused, and stammered into the kitchen. I guess tequila promotes ambition along with promiscuity, because not only did I plan to make coffee, but I decided to make it a mocha. That's right, I set the bar high. And then fall miserably short of it.
I had coffee grounds, an easy-to-use coffee maker, instant hot chocolate powder, and somewhere between six and eight brain cells. Looking back, this should have been a sure thing. The hot chocolate was instant, for God's sake, and all I needed to do was add it to the coffee while it was nice and scalding. But as we all know, a sure thing doesn't exist. So I poured the hot chocolate powder on top of the coffee grounds in the filter and pressed start.
About ten minutes of me stumbling through my room fiddling with various articles of clothing passed before I returned to the kitchen. To my immense disappointment, I found a thick cloud of steam, a disgusting, overflowing filter and a pot filled with half a cup of what looked like the Swamp Thing's bath water. I took a sip anyway. I gagged. I made another pot- strictly coffee this time.
Somehow I had managed to dress myself, inhale a granola bar and brush my teeth in just enough time to head out for the bus. All I needed was my coffee to accompany me. Clearly it would have been far too easy of a day if there had been clean thermoses in the cabinet, so I cheerfully resorted to Plan B, which was a red Dixie cup. This alternative actually seemed rather appropriate, as now my drinking accessory perfectly matched my Blood Alcohol Content. But looks aren't everything.
The plastic cup was scalding hot- thank God I had little to no feeling in my extremities when I first tried to pick it up. OK, this was a problem. I quickly reviewed the facts of which I was completely sure: I had to leave. I had to leave right at that moment. The coffee was too hot to carry. I could not leave without my coffee. Alright, no problem. My next move was to apply simple, good old-fashioned logic. My coffee was too hot, so I needed to cool it off. Easy, right? I put the Dixie cup of coffee in the microwave. That's right, the microwave. You're probably wondering what button I pressed. It was Defrost.
The coffee was hotter, the cup was deformed and the kitchen smelled like cancer. I poured the coffee into a different Dixie cup and ran out the door, beginning to feel a bit defeated at this point. It was obviously raining profusely, and I was a hot mess trying to gulp down as much caffeine as I could without drowning or scorching my throat. I knocked out half the cup on the way to the bus, but decided there was too much remaining liquid to waste. Weeks later I still couldn't tell you why I didn't just take the coffee on the bus with me, especially when such momentous drunken effort went into making it. It just seemed...wrong. But I refused to let the day oppress me, so I devised a plan to outsmart the weather. I hid my half-filled Dixie cup beneath a Toyota Four-Runner, tucked safely behind the back tire. After class I'd walk back through that parking lot and finish my drink, and it would be delightful.
I went to class, rode the bus home, and walked back through the parking lot. The Four-Runner was gone and the Dixie cup was a pathetic crumpled piece of plastic getting pummeled by rain. So much for delightful. Oh, and I puked on the bus.
So yeah, if you've got the choice, go to school wasted. And take a thermos.
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