The night has ended, all the parties are busted and the kegs
are kicked. The boys and girls trying to “get it in” have paired up and began
the stumbling journey back to the dorms to make bad decisions with people
they’d never tell their friends about. If you were one of those final partiers,
lingering about, hoping in the off chance that you might be whisked away for a
night of wild and meaningless sex, you probably didn’t achieve your objective.
If you did, he/ she probably wasn’t worth it and you will regret it in the
morning. Instead you begin your unsuccessful inebriated tromp back to your
place of residence.

After stumbling back to the dorms, you stand outside your
building for twenty minutes, freezing and calling everyone you know to let you
in because you lost your card. No one answers and eventually some other poor
soul in a similar position to you appears and lets you in. Next you proceed to
your third floor residence, taking the elevator and cursing the whole time, as
the elevator takes too much time for your strapped late night schedule. As you
fall into your door, you wake up your roommate who has to let you in because
you forget your room combo. You lay down on your bed and exchange stories about
how you “totally could have gone home with this chick” or spotted your ex
hooking up with someone else. This puts your thoughts on sex and ideas of the
like. Though you are too drunk to successfully untie your own shoes, you start
spamming every person you had hooked up with in the past three weeks, any
person you ever hoped to have a chance with and that hottie from your sociology
103 class; all in the hopes of attaining the late night booty call. The message
resembles the product of a typing cat (wanhjkt tpoo dfudck? ), but its meaning still gets across. It’s a gamble for sure and you will regret it
in the morning, but it’s the best option for the time being. As your slew of
texts are sent and your outbox is full, you wait in anxious anticipation. As
you slowly nod off, the only thing keeping your alcohol ravaged body
functioning is the thought of bumping uglies. Ten minutes have passed and you
begin to give up hope, just then, when your eyes drop shut and the drool pooled
on your pillow begins to crust over, an erratic and disrhythmic knock
reverberates from your door. You shoot up out of bed, still dressed in your AE
polo and timberlands, dazed and confused by the late night knock. As you order
your thoughts your mind immediately attempts to explain the knock. Your
thoughts jump straight to cops. They were here for you, they followed you back
from the party, knew you were drinking and were going to take you away. This
paranoia is commonplace among the late night knock. As you throw yourself out
of bed, hide the chillem you stole from your older brother and spray the room
with febreeze. You then approach the door to peer through the peep hole. As you
grasp the knob to steady yourself, the image on the other side of the door
becomes clear, it is a member of the opposite sex, not wearing a badge. Your
texts had paid off and your reward is the illusive 4 am knock and its
accompanying booty call!

The prize is yours, but take caution. This person was
willing to stumble to your room at an ungodly hour for mediocre drunken sex
without even giving the courtesy of a text response. For this meager reward they
are willing to overlook the impossibly awkward next morning and its
accompanying months of averted gazes and awkward “heys”. What are their intentions?
Are they as desperate as you? Had they sent similar indecipherable drunk spam?
All valid questions, whose answers you cannot begin to comprehend in the
half-sleep half-drunk state you currently occupy. So most likely you will throw
caution to the blustery Plattsburgh wind and proceed with the sweaty,
snottering, soulless sexscapade that is the four am hook-up.

SEE MORE » , ,