Slumber party massacre

While discussing Dooce being on ABC News, Curly and I also touched on slumber party torture. These days, I'm a proud insomniac, which may or may not have something to do with the torture I endured at slumber parties because I always fell asleep first, Heather and Mrs. F. I had my bra frozen on numerous occasion. I was the victim of large-scale horror productions carried out with pantyhose face masks and kitchen knives. Things were put in my mouth. And in my hair. The list goes on and on.

Living with six other girls sophomore year in college was much like those slumber parties of my preteen years, except that the offenses carried out against unsuspecting slumberers were usually carried out under the influences of drugs and/or alcohol, meaning 1) the victim would rarely wake up and 2) the instigators thought their plan was much funnier than it actually was.

Hence, one night after swallowing several shots of Goldschlager, (Seriously, why did I, or anyone else, ever drink that? Were we mad?) I found myself passed out on the couch of our suite. I woke up the next morning bleary-eyed and determined to make it to my class at noon, which was no small feat. Yawning, I got into the shower and started cleaning myself up.

A quick investigation of my body turned up something troubling. Written all over my body, in a variety of colors and handwriting styles, were the names of popular 80's glam bands. Poison, Trixter, Warrant…all over. And they weren't coming off. And it was summer.

"You guys are assholes!" I yelled from the shower. When I emerged, they were all sitting around the living room laughing at me.

I was pissed at the time, but in hindsight, that was pretty funny. But seriously, is it any wonder that I don't sleep?