“Ya Ever Play Strip Blackjack?”

“Hit me”

“Hit me”

“...Hit me”

“Shit” “Strip!”

We were chasing vodka shots with

lemon juice

because someone found it in the fridge

and it was too cold

we were too

drunk to get anything else.

Our lips curled at the alcohol

puckered at the juice

and we shook from head to spine

passing the bottle on.

Socks scattered the floor like confetti, a celebration

of naked spontaneity.

Button-downs mingled with

sweatpants – Target thongs and

boxer briefs made unlikely friends

in the corner near the golden glowing lamps.

Our bare asses touched the matted-down blue carpet

that had probably had a thousand other asses on it,

but it felt less like a toilet seat of debauchery

and more like a sacred site –

a pilgrimage of hundreds of 20-year-olds seeing

just how raucous and ridiculous we could get

before the three knocks of the RA

pounded the door like our hearts

on our ribcages.

But it felt brand new to us at 3 AM

my brain rattling inside the Skul

bottle that bounced just shy of the recycle bin.

Whitney Bain is a stereotypical, Subaru driving, mountain climbing gal from Colorado, but she is currently attending school in Vermont because the brochures were nice. She’s about to graduate with a Professional Writing degree. She’s hoping to find something in the “real world” that ignites her passion and creativity, but for now, she’s willing to settle for something that pays the bills. Her interests include dancing in the kitchen and eagerly waiting for movie theaters to open again. You can follow her sometimes profound but mostly chaotic musings on Twitter @WRBain02.