The Children’s Book With No Lessons

Editor’s Post

I blame nobody but my office. They coordinated a five-hour unlimited open bar for my department. I am twenty-two. What was I supposed to do?

I woke up the next morning to a “sent” folder of 5 separate messages to one guy who, in the nature of reason and a perfectly plausible reaction to a blazing red flag, never responded. I did not see these messages on my phone, but rather on some iMessage device alert on my email. My phone is gone. It has never been found. I do not know what happened during the last two hours of the night, and I do not know how I arrived home safely, but my phone is gone.

My sweatshirt is also gone. And somehow I managed to purchase a cab ride home and exchange money for a service.

My darling roommate heard me relinquish all food items through my mouth that had ever entered my body for hours as the afternoon went on. She loves me! I am quiet and not messy. But I throw up a lot on Sunday mornings.

I FaceTimed my mother, who rejected my call because she was at a family barbecue. I needed her. I. NEEDED. HER.

At work the following few days I was presented with my behavior that I neglected to remember. For being the girl who eyes her sent Facebook messages and has a panic attack for an hour after seeing the “Seen at _:__” timestamp, I really had an impressive night of offending people and performing some fire-able sexual harassment on nice people who did not ask for it. I was the douchey bro of the night.

I blame my work. And my lovely mother who didn’t pick up my FaceTime, but who did ensure that I learned nothing from my mistakes by ordering me a new, better phone that was at my Queens doorstep within five days of the incident.

I’ve learned nothing, except that adult life where you’re making actual money and don’t have an RA is a better and more fun place to be an idiot than college was. College fun was bullshit. I am a goddamn adult!

(I need my mom.)

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