You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery

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Book: You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery by Mamrie Hart Read Free Book Online
Authors: Mamrie Hart
Tags: Adult, Humour, Biography, Non-Fiction, Writing
the ground beneath my feet, the night felt magical. I was finally gonna get some sweet, sweet ass. I couldn’t risk hooking up after a drip-dry!
    I reached around me and grabbed a few leaves. Toilet paper is technically made out of trees, I reasoned, so the leaves were like the freshest one-ply TP available. #organic
    RUTABAGA!
    Once back at the house, the Italian and I had fun. I beat him at Ping-Pong, and then I beat on his ding-dong. I kid! That rhyme was
too
great not to go for. It takes a little more than that to put a notch on my lipstick case, but I was happy to “brush” up on him (makeup innuendo FTW).
    The next day, the hangover was
painful
. But it wasn’t as painful as being dropped off in front of your dorm by a convertible full of Italian men. Let me add that this was around nine fifteen a.m., right when
everyone
is headed to their nine-thirty class. Oh great, there’s Green Hat watching me crawl out of this Miata full of dudes. Fantastic! There’s White Shirt thinking I just played “Put Your Weenie in My Arancini” with five Italian dudes. But I played it cool (pretended to get a dramatic call on my flip phone) and hurried into the dorm. Once the elevator doors closed and I could finally relax, I noticed it. Something felt
off
in my pants. I fought the urge to panic and immediately drop my pants in the elevator, waiting until I got to my room.
    There, on the toilet, is when I realized that nothing would ever be the same. Peering downtown, I saw that my hoo-ha was red and itchy and—holy fuck, I had Italian herpes! That was the only explanation. I straight-up had Italian herpes. Granted, it was probably much classier than normal herpes, with its affinity for high fashion and late-night dinners, but it was still
herpes
. And herpes is the one thing that lasts forever. Not true love, not diamonds—herpes. When the apocalypse comes, it won’t just be cockroaches that survive. It will also be herpes and that random bottle of crème de menthe you bought years ago.
    Upon learning about my new “forever friend,” I took a shower hot enough to take off the top two layers of epidermis. I awkwardly crawled into bed. Just as I was about to finish filling out my online application to the nunnery, it hit me. That wasn’t the herp; that was poison ivy! I must’ve, like an idiot, wiped with poison ivy leaves in the dark when I pissed in the woods!
    I was so overcome with a sense of relief until I realized,
Hold up. I have poison ivy all over my vagina and butt crack
. It was like,
Phew, I thought I was eating poison but turns out it’s only dog shit.
You still aren’t exactly coming out on top.
    And when I get poison ivy,
I get poison ivy.
When I was a little girl, I would spend a lot of time in the woods, and at least once a year my sister and I would come home covered in poison ivy. It would get so bad on our hands that my mom would have to feed us ’cause we couldn’t pick up our forks. We looked like straight-up Garbage Pail Kids. We just never learned the adage “Leaves of three, let it be.” *
    Now, here’s the superfun thing about having poison ivy all up in your butt crack. When you walk, the friction between your cheeks will cause it to spread. So I was pretty much detained from walking. And if I did, I was walking in a ballet second position with toilet paper separating my butt cheeks.
    I missed a lot of class in those few weeks, and when my suitemates were questioned about where I was, they quickly made up excuses for me.
    Mamrie? Oh, the poor thing got dumped. She’s been eating Bagel Bites and watching
The Notebook
for two weeks straight.
    Mamrie has been locked in our room, furiously masturbating to the first season of
The Bachelor
all month. I’ve already called her parents.
    I’m Mamrie. We switched bodies. How’s it going, y’all? Woot woot!
    I spent my days spread-eagle in front of a fan, with bright pink calamine lotion slathered all over my undercarriage. If you walked into my

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