marcus' party was, to put it in psuedo-hipster dialect, a fucking drag. I hate annoying drunks. They're such a fucking buzz killer.
Trent kept trying to have sex with me. Let me also mention, I hate slutty drunks. Generally, when a person doesn't move when you dry hump and slobber all over their faces, it's a subtle indication that, hey, they're not interested. But ohh no. Trent was so wasted that to him, my "get the fuck off me" was more like a "oh baby, I wanna fuck you so bad". When he started trying, quite forcefully, to take my clothes off, I decided I had enough. Shawn decided he had to beat the shit out of Trent to get my point across. Suddenly, I was in the middle of a massive, interratial gang brawl. The fight wasn't about ME, christ, I know I'm not that hot... but rather... a group of Latin Kings had wandered into the party and bumped into a handfull of BD people. Why the hell they were at a middle-class, white bread house party, I have no idea. But it turns out bottles of zima really are good for something, afterall.
I escaped with the guy who was pissing in the plant (I think he was on acid, or meth, or god only knows what), when the cops arrived.
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