Agatha and I went to Guapo’s last night for reasons we never really figured out, though when it comes to frat parties thrown at shitty Mexican restaurants, no one needs a reason. I was supersaturated with vodka and beer and Red Bull and nicotine, and I remember nothing except girls in those awful black stretch pants, Top 40 hip-hop that is somehow mainstream yet simultaneously obscure, flirty boys in fraternities, my face in Krisy’s breasts, neon green wristbands, No Smoking signs that were dutifully ignored, some cute closeted homo opening a tab on Daddy's gold AmEx, a thrilling paranoia of police and narcs and underage drinking citations, this skinny fag who wouldn’t stop staring, my right hand holding a Red Bull and a lit cigarette, my left hand shaking and touching and gesturing, looking super hip and super friendly and approachable, talk of Saturday night plans and spring break plans but not summer plans, my I Live to Party shirt that hugged my chest and stretched tight across my nipple ring, and I’d raise my arms and consciously flash a sliver of stomach, toned and tanned, and then there was the staircase, which led me down towards the street, and the cold air stung and I was both relieved and surprised to have remembered my coat.