The Life of an Attention Whore

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Punta Cana - Martes

The second day of spring break always seems to start the same way for me. Last year I woke up in a bed with several other people. This year it was just me and JockJam, but I was being spooned - and she was in her underwear. For those of you who have yet to experience it, there's nothing quite like a sorority girl on sorority girl spooning, let your "Girls Gone Wild" imaginations run wild. And don't forget, every night before sleepy time in the sorority house, we have our daily naked pillow fight.

With JockJam's arms sensually encompassing me, I woke up to Shuff, Quazi and Stwin running around the room around 9 am chanting "Bang my bongo! Bang my bongo!" At this ungodly hour of the morning, I wasn't sure what a "bongo" was, but I highly doubted, even in my slightly hungover, groggy state that they were talking about beating a drum. After all we aren't described as "[former] nice girls [who got] letters which seem to act as cordial invitation to have other people with letters fuck them" for nothing.

"What's a bongo?"
"A vag."

Well, I guess that explains that. Shortly after that arousing awakening, we filled out the star chart and some of us headed to breakfast and then to the beach. Quazi, JockJam, Greenpeace and I walked t0gether only to be greeted by the sexiest sight we would see all vacation. An elderly man with a hairy back was walking in front of us. Naturally, we lowered our eyes to check out his ass.

"Can we just pause for a second?" JockJam asked stopping and staring.
The man was wearing a black speedo man thong, complete with his gray hairy ass exposed for all to see. I've never suffered from an eating disorder, but at that moment, throwing up breakfast didn't seem like such a bad idea.

And speaking of binging and purging, as soon as we hit the beach heavy drinking commenced once again for everyone - except me. Still slightly hungover, I sat on the sideline sipping a lemonade, jealous of everyone with more resilient stomachs than myself. However, two hours and a meal later I was back in business and ready to join my friends in our drinking crusade. Like the Knights of Templar set to destroy all that is unholy, we set out on our holy war to destroy all that is our liver and dignity.

By the time I arrived at the pool, war was already underway. JockJam who had been drinking particularly heavily all day had once again declared a war of inebriation on the boys. Not content with destroying them in chugging contests, she had declared a battle of the sexes in flip cup. Though this seems like a simple endeavor, the contest actually required a great deal of preparation. Unlike a frat house that is equipped for endless amounts of beer pong, flip cup, quarters and gang bangs, a family resort is not prepared to house the aforementioned activities - except maybe the gang bang.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw JustinBenjamin strolling up to us, with a large bookbag. Great choice JockJam, make out with the dorky kid prepared with the entire set of Encyclopedia Brittanica. He plopped the bag down on a nearby chair, and instead of pulling out War and Peace, he presented us with the Holy Grail of spring break. A light shined down from heaven as JustinBenjamin pulled out two sleeves of red beer pong cups and counted out cups for us, his disciples.

Quickly, the rest of us pushed two tables together and got on opposite sides. One of the boys ran back to his room and got an ice bucket to serve as a makeshift pitcher. When he came back with beer, we filled our cups and prepared for battle.

Lunchlady and Tattoo were the first to start. Their eyes met and the standoff began. Simultaneously they both tapped their beers on the table, touched glasses, tapped the table again and then brought the cups to their lips. The battle had begun. Yells broke out on both sides of the table while the next person to drink waited with their hand hovering over their cup in anticipation. Like Tanya Harding beat Nancy Kerrigan, the girls won round one of Flip Cup why the boys whined "Why me? Why me?". To show our good sportsmanship we extended our hands in consolation and then raised them into a fist pump.

"Losers get beer! Losers get beer! Losers get beer!"
Resignedly one of the boys headed to the bar to refill the ice bucket.

Several rounds, and 4 wins later, it was my turn to start. I challenged Speedo, the boy across from me to an individual competition via my usual trash talking and he accepted giving me the typical angry glare that comes with a rivalry. Down, cheers, down, drink. I pounded my beer, placed the cup on the table and flipped it over in two tries. Meanwhile Speedo was struggling with his flipping skills, and as we moved on to our third person, he just took the cup and placed it upside down on the table. Don't mess with the little Asian in flip cup - I will Chun-Li your ass.

"Oh, I thought you were going to beat me? What happened? It must be because you're from Jersey and Jersey sucks."
"I don't believe in stereotypes."
"I do, especially racial ones. And the fact that an Asian beat you in a drinking game...not a good sign"

Shortly after that victory, we got bored of the game and decided to initiate group chugging via toasts to the important people of Punta Cana.

"Here's to the men that are big. Here's to the men that are small. Here's to the men that think they're big, but really aren't at all. And the ones we raise our glasses to in the middle of the night. Are the ones that go from small to big and stick it in just right."

"All hail Punta Cana! All hail Punta Cana! All hail Punta Cana who's with us tonight. She's horny, she's sleezy, she's so god damn easy! All hail Punta Cana who's with us tonight. So drink mother fucker, drink mother fucker, drink mother fucker, drink! Why are we waiting we could be masturbating! Whooooo!"

These are our sorority cheers verbatim. And although shouting about penis sizes and masturbation in public might be inappropriate, assaulting the ears of a bunch of middle aged Europeans who subjected us to images of their naked saggy tits and hairy asses all week is simply payback, and a poor one at that. They can forget the chants but I can't burn out those horrifying images out of my head. In fact just writing about it makes me want to gouge my eyes out with chopsticks.

Mid-chanting Greenpeace came up to me and said she had talked to Hector and he wanted to meet us on the deserted section of the beach later on to smoke. When five o'clock came around Greenpeace and I took off down the beach. She informed me that it would be us, Hector and Samuel (Hector's cousin and one of the managers of the hotel). She also told me that they couldn't be seen walking with us because people would think that they're taking us to do something bad. At that point my Nathalie Holloway radar should've gone off, but the promise of "la mota" always clouds my vision. Greenpeace and I headed off down the beach to an area with almost no people around. Shortly after, Hector and Samuel arrived and said that we needed to go even farther away since there were too many people around. I looked up and down the beach and saw one solitary jogger about half a mile away...are you kidding me?

After already committing a mile's worth of energy to this endeavor, we agreed to walk a little further into a completely deserted alcove to smoke. Samuel opened his briefcase, as I watched praying it didn't contain the rope and knife of the American urban legend - or in the Domincan story I guess it would be a machete and some vine. Fortunately, he only removed a straw wrapper, which upon closer inspection I realized was actually a joint.

Despite the utopia like setting of smoking on the beach just before sunset, this paradise was quickly interrupted by the pushy Jamaican man on my left. My I'm-about-to-get-molested sense was correct, and as soon as the joint was finished Hector put his arm around my waist and tried to put his hand up my shirt.

"Umm, I have a boyfriend," I said removing his hand and inching away.
"He won't know. I betchu' neva been like dis wit' a black guy before," he replied moving closer
"And I don't want to," I mumbled. "Actually, my boyfriend is black and he's a national karate champion and one of the best in the world at sparring," I responded hoping that my African Bruce Lee boyfriend would scare him off.

And for those of you judging me because I smoked this guys stuff, and then wouldn't hook up with him...FUCK YOU! I offered to give him money for it.

Shortly after that exchange, I yelled "shenanigans" to Greenpeace (our keyword for "time to get the fuck out of here") and told the guys we had to be back for a dinner reservation. As punishment for my not putting out, Hector decided to walk along side me and tell me about his career as a musical artist and skills as a self-proclaimed combination of Bob Marley and Shaggy. Although I wouldn't want to hear those two in combination in the first place, Hector then began to sing me an impromptu freestyle love song. I wish I could've recorded it because he sounded like a combination of a Jamaican William Hung and a pubescent boy whose balls are midway through dropping.

Forty five minutes and a suicide attempt later, Greenpeace and I finally got back to the hotel (alone), and decided to hit up the dinner buffet before we went to our dinner reservation at 8:30. Two dinners in two hours is just how I roll.

After dinner in the hotel restaurant, six of us got ready to go out and headed up to the piano bar to meet up with JockJam and the "Richter*" boys of the Marist track team.

Shuff: Lunchlady, your boobs look great in that shirt!
Lunchlady: Thanks!
Me: Boobs. Oh my god! Boobs.
Everyone in unison: Let's get some boobs! Lets get some boobs!
Quazi, Lunchlady, and Greenpeace: These boobs rule!
Itty Bitty Titty Committee: These boobs suck!
Q, L & G: These boobs rule!
IBTC: These boobs suck!
All: These boobs cost $3000. These boobs cost $3000. Let's grab them!

After that typical Clio moment, we rejoined the real world and started playing drinking games with with the boys. Shuff and I sat down at a small table with Speedo, Borat, EmoBoy, PinkShades and a few others whom we decided to play a game of "Thumper" with.

Shuff: (banging on her legs) What's the name of the game!
All: (also banging on legs) THUMPER!
Shuff: Why do we play it!

Unfortunately, instead of getting me fucked up, the game only succeeded in giving me sore legs. However, the yelling did help succeed in emptying the bar a little bit more, making our drink retrieval process somewhat quicker. Mission accomplished.

If that first game didn't clear out the middle aged patrons in the bar the second game definately did. They started a loud game of "What the fuck" whose rules I'm not sure of but the chanting sounded something like an X-rated personal ad, with people yelling "Crazy fuck looking for a hot fuck. SWF need only apply."

By the time that game started, the entire bar except us had left. However, there's only so long you can slap your legs and yell about fucking (that's what she said), so we decided to check out la discoteca. But first a falling over, incoherently drunk EmoBoy decided to raise his glass in a toast to new found friends.

"Here's to the men that are big.....but really are not."

Was he trying to tell us something?

When we got to la discoteca, it was nearly empty except for a few random European guys (the sweaty, hairy, Eurotrash kind, not the hot and sexy kind). Some of the Marist boys were there too - dancing with each other. Due to the overwhelming exhibit of homosexuality (read: no one to hook up with, I'm not homophobic) we decided to head back to the bar, for some shots. A few shots and a drink or two later I was drunk enough to dance, but by the time we were back at the discoteca almost everyone had left.
Opting not to dance alone or with the creepy older men, Shuff, Greenpeace and I headed to the snack shack where we found some of the boys. The group of us sat down with them snacking on fries and telling dead baby jokes (What's the difference between a pile of bowling balls and a pile of dead babies? I don't move the bowling balls with a pitchfork). At some point someone mentioned that Borat had been in the bathroom for quite a while. Dropping the fry from my mouth I asked if he had gotten food poisoning, but they said not to worry, that he was probably just battling the purple-headed yogurt slinger in the bathroom. When Borat finally returned we asked him how his trip to el bano was, which resulted in a bizzare question.

Borat: What's the most amount of times you think I've jerked off in a day?

I made a guess, and was actually correct because strangely enough I've had this conversation several times before. The thing I didn't understand was why he was working on maintaining his record while on spring break? Aside from my group of friends there were sluts aplently around the resort, who with enough alcoholic persuasion would probably be willing to help him out. I guess seeing the saggy titted European women (or maybe the hairy assed men?) all day was just too much for him and he couldn't control his urges.

Dead baby jokes (How do you fit 100 dead babies into a bucket? Blender. How do you get them back out? Doritos) food, masturbation got boring quickly so the group of us decided to head back to the boys room for some more fun. Along the way we passed the pool I decided it was about time I took some clothes off, since as those of you who know me are aware I am "Naked all the time". Unfortunately PinkShades beat me to it by taking off his shirt and jumping into the pool. I followed suit, took off my shirt and jumped in with him. Being drunk I started swimming around and took off my skirt since it was hard to maneuver with the weight of the mini-skirt weighing me down. When I looked back towards Shuff to pass her the skirt to put on the side of the pool, I saw a face that I didn't recognize. As I was about to call out my typical, "Hey I'm drunk and I don't think I met you before" I realized from his scowl that he was actually part of the hotel staff. I unsuccessfully tried to put my clothes back on in the pool before getting out, apologized, and left with the Shuff and Greenpeace towards the boys'room for that gangbang that the hotel was equipped for and would be more approving of.

In the boys room, EmoBoy was predictably passed out. The boys started the typical shaming (penis on the arm, writing on the back, etc) and us girls, went to the bathroom together to assess what we wanted to do for the rest of the night. When we came back out the boys were giggling and running in and out of the room. I stepped out of the room and saw a bundle of blankets sitting in the hallway. As I stood there confused as to what the commotion could be about when one of the boys unrolled the blanked and Ta-Da! There lay EmoBoy completely naked in the middle of the hall. The boys were running around him taking pictures and Greenpeace joined in on the action. As for his earlier toast to "the men that are big..." - ask someone else because I'm not telling.
Because of all the laughing some of our enemies, the old European/Canadian tourists, in the adjacent rooms opened their doors and looked like they were about to yell at us. Momentarily stopped like a pack of deer in the proverbial headlights, we froze, and then all ran back into the room leaving EmoBoy where he lay. When we heard the doors close, we quickly snuck out and headed back to the sports bar where drinks were served all night. Afterall, they're European so a naked man in the hallway shouldn't be an issue for them. In fact, EmoBoy should be questioning what happened in those hours before he woke up and returned to bed since I hear in Europe they're fans of NAMBLA (North American Man-Boy Love Association).

At that point our night came to an anti-climactic end. Shuff went to bed, and Greenpeace and I had a few more drinks with the boys before they pussied out and went to bed at a pathetic 3 am. Like I said before, runner's can't drink (although I intend to get back into shape and disprove that), although apparently they're quite adept at being big babies.

*Note: "Richter" is a phrase coined by some homosexual on one of those faux-reality shows on MTV that focuses on nauseatingly wealthy teenagers with nothing better to do than hook up with each others boy/girlfriends and complain that their fathers only got them 1 new car for their birthday . This is apparently one of the favorite shows of these boys who all tattooed "RICHTER" onto their bodies, and said it at every chance possible. Sadly, I've heard my friends using the phrase post-spring break. Kill me please.


Sunday, March 18, 2007

Punta Cana - Lunes

A wise sage once said, “There’s a time and place for everything, and it’s called college.” That sage may have been South Park, but regardless, they were only half right. There’s another time and place for everything, and it’s called Spring Break. Last year, about sixty students from Geneseo ended up in Cancun where the repertoire of activities included losing people, making out with handicapped persons, almost getting arrested, crashing a Mexican wedding and of course getting inappropriately drunk. This year, instead of the typical spring break experience seven of us opted to go to la Republica Dominicana for a drunk, albeit much calmer vacation.

However, with Clios, calm is rarely if ever an adjective to describe us, so to mix things up a bit JockJam had the idea to create a star chart in which we could have a competition of drunken idiocy. Similar to the type of charts teachers make to segregate the future panhandlers from the overachievers, our star chart served to separate the hard core drinkers from the prissy bitches. None of us fell into the latter category. Categories included puke during the day, indecent exposure, grind with dad, make-out in public, pee your pants and twenty other categories that emphasized the drunken whorishness of our sorority.

Monday promptly at 2:30 am after not having slept all night JockJam, Stwin, Quazi, Shuff, Lunchlady, Greenpeace and I left from Quazi’s house for Newark airport. Unfortunately in our eagerness to start our spring break, we left Quazi’s house too early and arrived three hours before our 6 am flight. Normally this would seem excessive, but considering our arrival at the USA 3000 (yes that is a real airline) check in desk was met by a dutiful employee wielding a pen and index cards that would serve as our tickets, I was more than happy to have arrived early. As she gave us the once over and checked our names off a highlighted list using a pen and filled out our tickets by hand, I began to feel a little nervous about the flight. Something about the idea of flying on an airline that hadn’t yet mastered the use of computers left me with a feeling of anxiety in my stomach. Or maybe that was just the withdrawal from not having drank for three days. Thirty minutes later, we were given hand written tickets on green index cards, released into the airport and headed through security.

Being the good girls we are, we knew about the new FAA rule prohibiting the possession of over 3 ounces of liquid in carry on baggage. However, Greepeace in her last minute packing rush was still carrying a large bottle of hair gel. That was bad enough but in addition to carrying an illegal amount of liquid she was also carrying, reading, talking and praising her book on the life and times of Osama Bin Laden. Thank god she wasn’t also wearing a turban, eating Halal meat, driving a cab and praying towards Mecca because she would've been shot on sight. But since she’s una buena chica blanca, she went through security hair gel intact and hassle free.

“Me one, Airport zero,” she announced loudly upon exiting the baggage scan.

About an hour later we boarded the plane and the seven of us were off to Punta Cana. Somewhere mid-flight the stewardess’ voice came over the loud speaker.

“Good morning passengers, in a few minutes your flight attendants will be coming around with drinks and breakfast sandwiches. Today you have a choice of ham and egg or sausage and egg as well as a variety of drink options. Cocktails may also be purchased for a fee of five dollars.”

Gently waking from her slumber, Lunchlady figured it was the perfect time to start her day with a cup of orange juice.

“Can I get a screwdriver please?”

The stewardess looked at Lunchlady like she had just asked for cup of dead babies (How do you fit a dead baby into a cup? Use a blender.) and then handed her a drink fearfully as though she was touching a leper. After that I’m pretty sure she sped down the aisle with her cart, before the alcoholic could ask for another drink. Good job Lunchlady for starting the day right at 7:30 am.

A few hours later we arrived. The Clios in sunny Punta Cana. We exited the plane around 9:30 am and were greeted by friendly natives saying things such as “Buenos dias chicas bonitas” and other things of a flattering nature. After going through customs and changing into bathing suits and shorts we headed to find our bus company.

When the driver arrived he told us that the ride to our hotel would be about five minutes, and thus began our four day experience with “Dominican time.” Everything in Punta Cana is apparently between five and fifteen minutes away, which in American time is anywhere between fifteen minutes and an hour and a half.

Along the ride we encountered the beautiful scenery of the DR. The unpaved streets were dotted with palm trees, blue skies and ramshackle huts. The natives gazed into our bus with a look that could only mean "Fucking rich white girls, I'd love to Nathalie Holloway their asses" and while they gave us that look, Greepeace gazed fondly back at the children wishing she could single handedly give evey child packages of paper, markers and crayons. I shit you not, she had packed all those things yet somehow they seemed to disappear from her suitcase before we left from Geneseo. Oops. The skills of the bus driver could also be likened to those of a drunk blind asian man (is that redundant?) driving down a street with no speed limit, traffic rules, or lines to separate one side of the street from the other. That in combination with the looks from the locals lead me to have a slight fear for my life, but hey spring break, coming back alive is a blessing not an expectation.

Forty minutes later we arrived at the area that housed our hotel, the Grand Paradise Bavaro. Here the scenery was actually beautiful, with palm trees and exotic flowers decorating the facades and landscape of the several hotels on the resort. It was truly beautiful, and the view of the ocean from the hotel heightened the beauty of the scenery. Although the hour was still one at which most of us would not be awake under normal circumstances our only wish upon arrival was unanimous. I need a drink - and make it pretty enough to match the scenery.

We walked up to the front desk to check in, and a few minutes later our wish was granted. One of the employees walked up to us with a tray of fruity red drinks with a slice of pineapple. In our first tastes of Dominican drinks the succulence was unmatched by any drink we had ever encountered in a Geneseo bar, and we were barely able to taste the alcohol. Each of us started to chug our drinks until JockJam pointed out that it was in fact a non-alcoholic drink. After that our enthusiasm for the beverage diminished, and the concierge informed us that our room would not be ready for another hour, but we were welcome to leave our bags and head to the pool bar.

Not five minutes later (American time, 1 second in DR time) we were poolside at the cabana bar ordering our first drinks of the vacation. Two staff workers came up to me with a spider monkey and put it on my shoulder, instructing me to pose for a picture.

"It's so cute I just want to squeeze it!" Lunchlady said.
"Ummm, okay Lenny," I replied stepping away from Lunchlady in an attempt to save the monkey from his impending death.

We finished a few drinks and took in the ambience for an hour before heading back to the lobby so we could check into our rooms. As we were filling out forms we looked to the group next to us and realized it was a group of guys around our age.

"Hey!" Stwin said breaking through our group and going directly up to one of the boys. Usually the more reserved one of our group, she had just taken our innocuous boy watching to the next level by crossing the barrier between checking out and making contact. I watched her emphatically chat with one of the boys and I was shocked by this new Stwin that had emerged on Spring Break. I continued filling out forms and saw that Stwin was still talking to the boys so I asked Quazi if she knew who those boys were. It turns out the one she was talking to was her cousin. Boo! That was a disappointment. Then she said that he was there with a large group of guys our age. Score!

By this time, suffering from a lack of sleep and lack of food, I was already feeling slightly tipsy off Presidente beer as we headed to our room to check in. We entered the room and it was pretty typical hotel scenery. Two queen sized bed in overly colorful bed spreads with a small night table between them and some "native" art haphazardly attached to the wall to further brighten the room. Whatever, who cares. We dropped our shit in the room and headed back to the pool, and more importantly the pool bar.

When we arrived back at the bar some type of latin dance lessons were occuring lead by what JockJam described as a hot man that she would like to make out with. I feel it would be more accurate to describe him as a good looking (but short) Hispanic man who would not look out of place dressed like a pinata teaching salsa on the lido deck of a cruise ship. Plus he was slightly balding and stubble was regrowing on his chest and back. He introduced himself as Paco and pulled us into the dance lessons. JockJam, wanting to ram his boner immediately grabbed her drink and jumped in as I tried in vain to explain that I don't like to dance unless I'm adequately inebriated. And by adequately inebriated I mean down right shithoused to the point that I don't remember dancing. And I especially don't want to dance around a bunch of Dominicans who are debatably of either Hispanic or African descent - either way making them excellent dancers that will not be impressed by my white girl-esque dance move of the fist pump and head bob. I finally asked JockJam (our only fluent companion) how to express this, and I told Paco, "No me gusta bailar sin no estoy borracha". He laughed and didn't bother me for the rest of the vacation when it came to dance activites. A smarter man would've introduced me to the bartender to see what else I only do when I'm drunk.

The problem with me not dancing until I'm wasted is that I actually do like to dance, so I decided while everyone else was dancing it was the opportune time for me to start blacking out. It worked. That's the last thing I remember sequentially for the rest of the day. I think at some point after those drinks we introduced ourselves to the rest of Borat's friends (Stwin's cousin) who were all members of the Marist XC/Track and Field team. I didn't remember any of their names, or faces. My next fuzzy memory is of the Clio's challenging someone, to a game of volleyball.

Hyped for our first game, our desire to play came second only to our desire to drink. Between each serve the entire team would run to the sideline to pound more beer, and whoever was rotated out was assigned to beer wench duty. Despite our apparent inebriation, we were still high off our 4-1 record in pre-playoff season Geneseo intramural volleyball and talked so much shit that if Ron Artest had been there we would've been murdered and found weeks later floating in the ocean. Fortunately for the other team, karma and alcohol are a bitch and we lost the game despite running our mouths. Which was probably best for everyone involved. Had we won despite our level of inebriation, it would've snowed in Punta Cana and Satan himself would've called the next game. Our slight disappointment stemming for our loss was quickly replaced with excitement for our first star on the star chart for "start an obnoxious chant". For the rest of the day everything that came out of our mouth came out in chant form.

"Mas Cer-veza! Mas cer-veza!"
"Vol-ley ball! Vol-ley ball!"
"I am drunk! I am drunk!"

I think you get the idea, everyone in the resort would hate us by the end of the day, except the bartenders who would fall in love with the hot loud drunk girls from America.

After our greuling game of volleyball, team Clio headed to the bar for some more drinks. JockJam started challenging the boys to chugging contests, and scarily enough beat everyboy on the Marist track team. (Runner's can't drink! Runner's can't drink!) By this time I was completely blacked out and am told I spent a good portion of the rest of the time rotating between the pool, bar and our table talking to boys, bartenders and middle aged Canadian women on vaction with their family that wanted to party like 20 year old sorority girls.

At some point later on in the day all of us were in the pool when Shuff noticed that JockJam was missing, and consequently went to look for her. As she rounded the corner to get out of the pool she found JockJam. JockJam had tried to inconspiculously sneak around the corner of the pool hidden behind a bush to make out with one of the boys "JustinBenjamin." JockJam had earned her second star!

"Make out! Make out! Make out! Make out!" was the new chant started by Shuff, to which I'm sure other people started chiming in, in an attempt to embarass their friends as much as possible. After all, what are friends for?

The next thing I remember is being on the beach talking to a cute french guy. One thing that has yet to come out in any of my stories is that I become (or think I become) fluent in foreign languages when I'm drunk. I had seen the french guy earlier on the beach talking to some girl in French and mentioned to Shuff that I thought he was hot. I also said I wanted to talk to him later since he spoke french, and so do I when I'm drunk. Not long after I said this to Shuff, he came up to our table with his friend Jamaican Hector and tried to talk us into horseback riding on one of their vacation packages. Slightly drunk at this point, I asked him where his accent was from and he said that he was from Paris.

"I TOLD YOU would have a lot of foreign people" I yelled loudly to Shuff. Shit, I almost gave away that I had been checking him out on the beach. The fact that he barely spoke English and would not understand what I said didn't cross my mind. Just embarassment. Shuff pointed and laughed at me as I tried to cover my mistake and make conversation with Martin, the Parisian. Despite the fact that for humor purposes it would be much easier for me to make a slew of French jokes here about smelly, dirty, freedom hating Parisians, I have an inexplicable attraction to European men, especially ones who speak French. Sorry, no French jokes. But now you know if you want to pick me up all you have to do is speak french. Seriously, even bad french is a turn on.

As it turns out, I also spent a good portion of my day attempting to hit on Martin in butchered french. Greenpeace spent a good portion of her day hitting on Hector for the sole reason that since he was Jamaican he probably knew where we could find "la mota." This conversation developed into Greenpeace and I agreeing to meet Hector and Martin to smoke later somewhere isolated on the beach. Dangerously stupid idea, yes. But since when do drunk people, or I in particular ever go along with good ideas? Plus, the french guy was hot, so what was the worst that could happen?

After our conversation on the beach, I left Martin, and headed back to the room for a quick nap before smoking. I got into bed and suddenly JockJam came in and slammed the door.

"Fuck you! I am not opening the door for you! Don't let Greenpeace in," she said talking to Quazi and Stwin. We inquired as to what happend and she said that Greenpeace had found her sitting on the couch with JustinBenjamin and had said something along the lines of "close your legs you whore." I ignored the drama and laid down for a nap.

And by nap I mean went to bed because when I woke up everyone was dressed to go out and I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach and force fed me Draino. JockJam was passed out next to me, and both of us were lightly stirring. Quazi informed us that she had tried to wake us for dinner but we had just mumbled incoherently and went back to sleep. JockJam and I peeled ourselves out of bed, showered, and staggered to dinner in an attempt to catch up with our friends' progress on going out. At dinner, we mumbled to each other in incoherent drunk babble as we shoveled mashed potatoes and green beans in our mouths. Quite honestly, you could tell me I went to dinner naked and I wouldn't be surprised I was so delerious and still drunk. After dinner we stumbled outside to find the "beach party" but failed and went back to our rooms. I got back into bed and spent the rest of the night rolling around and pacing between my bed and the bathroom repeatedly mumbling "I have to puke. I need to puke. I'm gonna puke."

Like a hooker that's been beaten but still goes back to her pimp for more, JockJam pulled herself together and went back to endure more masochistic levels of drinking and party and the discoteca with the rest of our group for the rest of the night. Or maybe she just wanted to see her new boyfriend.

Around 2am Quazi and Stwin came back, and around three, JockJam stumbled into bed groaning.

"Risaaaa. I'm so sick. I have to puke. Where are my wheat thins," she mumbled and dragged herself between our bed and the bathroom, alternately puking and eating wheat thins. At one point she passed out in the bathroom for about an hour but before I cared enough to check on her, she came back to bed and passed out for good. Clio had done day one well. Or maybe Day one and done us. (Clios are drunks! Clios are drunks!)