Spring break in a tropical or nearly tropical location
Reason: Because it fucking rocks.
In my suitcase: Flavored condoms, flavored lube, flavored swim suit, 10 pairs of board shorts, 10 bottles of Absolut Vodka, one shirt just in case, khakis for the club, Dunkaroos.
Traveling with: Four of my most ballin' bro-manskis and $100 worth of snacks.
Place of residence: Between any pair of legs that open for me and I don't see a nut sack.
Drink of choice: Most delicious and holy Wop.
Amount of ass gotten: You have no fucking idea, man. No fucking idea.
Amount of boobs seen: About 32, wait, make that 34. FUCK YEAH!
Fucked up: Yessssshir or madammm!
Highlight of the trip: Right before the alcohol poisoning took effect, I think there was a balcony, me wearing the top half of a string bikini, a giant, blow-up promotional Jose Cuervo, and something about a taco I kept petting because I mistook it for a small mammal.
Spring break at home
Reason: I hate myself.
In my suitcase: All the laundry I've generated since winter break, W-2 forms to work on with Mom, coffee cup infested with mold to see if someone in the house knows how to fix that (Mom), all nine seasons of ""Seinfeld"" and a fucking PUZZLE of salmon spawning so that I won't cry myself into a disappointment and subsequent boredom-induced coma, and the winter coat that I usually store at home during warmer months but will regret wholly and bitterly once I'm back at school.
Traveling with: Dan, an awkward conversationalist, possible sex offender and guy I went to high school with but only hung out with once during sophomore year Homecoming dinner, who found out I was riding back home through a poorly filtered Facebook post and then sent me a desperate message about how he has a court date and absolutely needs a ride back, so will I please, please, please bring him, he will pay for gas?
Place of residence: Sharing both a room and a full-sized bed with my younger brother Nate, who not only kicks in his sleep but also compulsively masturbates.
Drink of choice: There is no choice—Lost Lake is the only beer I will have access to... And I have to make it appear like I haven't been drinking them or face the City Brewery Company LLC product-possessive wrath of Dad and/or Uncle Randy.
Amount of ass gotten: When I sat on my hands for an hour in order to give myself a ""stranger""
Amount of boobs seen: Two, and they were my mom's. WE ARE NOT GETTING INTO THAT, OKAY?
Fucked up: Because apparently I don't know that the stupid fucking gravy boat goes in the china cabinet. We only use that piece of shit like twice a year and for Christ's sake, I haven't lived with my parents since before I had nipple hair!
Highlight of the trip: Scrabble with Gram Grams. She may be 75, but she's a hoot and is damn strategic with the placement and timing of her Z words.
Where are you going for spring Break, and how does that affect how much your own life is the bane of your existence? You can tell VP all about it at evanpay@wisc.edu.
