Poppy.

Suffocation.

That’s what I felt when I was dancing with Kenny Tyler in the middle of his living room, on a Saturday night.

For a moment, maybe just a blip of a second, I forgot where I was. Lost in a sea of drunk, horny college students, I forgot that I was at a party on this Saturday night, and that I had two midterms the following Tuesday, and that instead of nursing the beer that was in my hand every five minutes, I should have been in the school library, studying.

Sweat trickled down the back of my neck and I felt the perspiration growing on my forehead. I quickly wiped at my forehead as Kenny closed the distance between us, as if that was even possible considering how close we already were. At that moment, I longed for a cigarette and fresh air. But he was closing in and I could feel the pounding of the music plus ten other pulsing bodies surrounding me. My lungs squeezed, as if they were ready to burst, and my heart began rapidly beating, due to the feelings of claustrophobia.

Kenny must have noticed the look of panic on my face because he smirked at me and whispered low in my ear, “You’re cute when—”

But I didn’t hear the rest of it because I shoved my way past him, making my way towards the kitchen. I didn’t even turn to see if he would follow me because I honestly did not give a fuck.

I set down the red plastic cup I had in my hand and saw that there were a group of girls doing shots near the sink. They had the water running, each ducking their heads below the faucet, using it after each time they took a shot. It looked silly, but I didn’t care to judge.

One of the girls caught me watching them and beckoned me to come over with a wave of her hand. I did, looking over at what they were drinking.

Grey Goose. Perfect.

“Take a shot,” the girl yelled at me, handing me a shot glass filled to the brim.

I didn’t even hesitate.

“There aren’t any chasers, but we’ve been using the faucet,” said one girl, but I grabbed the bottle of Grey Goose and began pouring myself another shot. They all watched in awe as I threw my head back and then began pouring another one.

I had three more shots before I began feeling a little woozy. I set the glass and bottle down, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“What a fucking champ,” said one girl, as the others cheered in unison.

The rest of the night was a blur.

Kenny Tyler found me again, we danced, I might have kissed him but I don’t remember—

Actually, I might have kissed a lot of people that night. But I don’t remember any of it.

I might have found my friends at one point, laughing, smoking, and drinking with them, but I don’t remember.

I might have found my way to Kenny’s bathroom and thrown up in the sink, but I really don’t remember that.

I might have stumbled out onto the porch, where a couple of strangers were sitting, smoking, and I might have lit one with them, taking more shots with them. But I certainly don’t remember.

And Jamie Hudson might have been walking up the stairs when I was making out with some rando, and he might have called out my name with a surprised tone.

And I might have looked at him.

And then puked all over his dark sneakers.

But I really don’t remember any of that.