22:50 - October 17, 2002
peach schnapps
jesus fucking christ, there are fifteen girls in togas wandering around my room, spritzing on perfume and tying each other up in the back. i have a splitting intense sinus headache from the combination of smells: cheap perfume and alcohol (peach schnapps (steph) everclear (creepy steve; must have highest concentration of course), and vodka (creepy chris)). my shift key isn't working so i must resort to typing all poetic-style-like about this shitty toga alcohol perfume thing like it's a fucking sonnet. this is, however, the scariest imagery i've seen here, like some whacked out surrealist painter working in garish oil pastel; opening the door and being hit square in the nose and eyes with blue and purple lined eyes and plumped up pouting red lips and flowing togas and freshly shaved legs, and, in some cases, arms, the skin perfumed with one or more of the plastic and glass bottles lining the dresser. Stephanie turns around (yay! the shift key works!) in a sickening wave of peach schnapps and Glow, hair spritzed into a half-up. 'What do you need?' she asks, knocking over a glass in the process.

'I need you to do something about that smell', I say, no wheeze, out at her, pain rising through my temples. 'And I need you to not play that J.Lo song eighty times a day, because you play it so much that when I went in for my music theory exam, I started transcribing it instead of Bach. And I need you to not say 'POUR ME A SHOT!' so loud that the R.A. could hear you even if he didn't live right next door. I need you to stop demanding that I turn down my music when yours is on volume nine and the guys on floor eight have come down to tell you to turn it down. I need you to stop moving my things from the shower. I don't want you using my printer when I'm not around.'
By now the entire room is listening. And my head is pounding so hard I am making less and less sense.
'I am your mother, all right, so listen to me. I have a headache. Your perfume is sickening. You are going to be late for your fucking toga party. And your toga is too loose. The second you take a step it will fall off.'
Silence. Even the music seems stunned or maybe my hearing has blanked out. I turn around and walk away, turning on the fan full blast so that some girl's tissues blow out of her hand.
Their drunkenness will make it impossible for them to discern which of us wasn't making sense. Last time she was that drunk she climbed into my bed naked in the middle of the night by accident, and couldn't face me for an entire week after. I rest my case.
god, my head hurts so much. fuck glow, and fuck peach schnapps. goodNIGHT.

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