Thick enough to ride the coaster

Because homecoming and parent’s weekend are really the best time to take off your clothes and grind with your classmates, Bwog brings you another party testimonial: GenderFuck! Want to tell Momma Bwog about your crazy weekend? Email us at tips@bwog.com or use our anonymous tip form.

I learned three things this weekend: Alcohol makes GenderFuck better, I still hate Marlboro Reds, and no amount of vodka will ever make anyone forget the lyrics to “My Humps.”

The night started with a series of snapchatted underwear choices, because crowdsourcing really is the best way to decide which dude’s name should be on my waistband. Shelling out $30 for those Hugo Boss boxer briefs: so worth it.

I started with a couple of hard ciders in my room because #dormdrinking and #don’twanttoremembermyhomework. I ended up in my friend’s EC suite, munching M&Ms (because you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, kids) and waiting for updates from another friend (let’s call him Allen), who was there early.

Allen: Omg it’s all weird early first years please come and save me.

We find some rum and make drinks–mine was strong enough that I couldn’t even taste the shitty flat Pepsi. At some point around 11:30 we pull up Stevie Nicks videos on YouTube, then Britney Spears, then a dubstep remix of Britney Spears. I was buzzed enough to temporarily forget my workload (necessary) but not enough to enjoy the Red I bummed off a friend. We hit Lerner late enough that they’d run out of wristbands, so a volunteer scribbled some number over 300 on my hand.

I strugglebuseddly unlaced my boots (GenderFuck protip: go for sweatpants and slip-off shoes) long enough to miss “212” but managed to pull my jeans and jacket off and stuff ’em into the Columbia Bookstore bag they offered me (alas, they were out of hangers) before “Till The World Ends” was done (everything. is. britney.).

At some point I stopped dancing long enough to hopefully think: this is what prom should have been like…but then I remembered that the teen pregnancy rate at my high school was bad enough without a clothing-optional dance. The music was a mix of shit I listen to with my Last.Fm scrobbler turned off, Le1f, and some French song DJs turn off halfway through every time they play it–in other words, the music was fucking great.

The ground was littered with giant balloons, which was fantastic because every time my terrible dancing resulted in my feet flying in every direction, I ended up kicking something and looking less pathetic and more spontaneous. But seriously, the balloons were everywhere. Balloon grind chains. Balloon volleyball. Balloon hackey sack.

The best thing about being less than sober was that every time I saw that weird kid from my Lit Hum class who I thought was straight attempting to twerk in his sad tighty whities, I could pretend to moonwalk away and pray I wouldn’t remember it in the morning (clearly, I didn’t drink enough).

Eventually, after a well received finale of pre-Born-This-Way-Gaga, the DJ threw on R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix)” and the lights (which, frankly, were a little high to begin with) came all the way up. We stumbled back into the lobby, I stumbled back into my boots, got my jeans back on (third try’s the charm!), and emerged singing “We Can’t Stop” (without irony, for once) into the brisk night.

What everyone at Columbia looks like naked via Shutterstock