eyes squinting in the sunlight. the taste of tequila shots, cigarettes and regret in your mouth. last night’s outfit clumisly pulled back on so that you are simultaneously overdressed and underdressed for 9am on a sunday. you try to figure out where you are. you try to look like you didn’t just hook-up with a rando who lived closer to the bar than you did. you try to remember the rando’s name.
admit it. you’ve been there. okay now admit that you’ve done more than one. it’s okay, this is a safe place, you’re among friends.
if you drink and have premarital sex, it’s a matter of time before you walk of shame. but i would like to suggest a change.
sure, you don’t remember their name. and sure you left your favorite belt/shoe/virginity at their place. that is no reason to be shameful. just be happy that you are hot enough/nice enough/rich enough to get laid. there are virgins the world over that would kill to be in your one shoe that’s left.
i don’t need to tell you any of this, you aren’t really shameful are you? if you were, the entire walk of shame you wouldn’t be texting your bestie out westie about what (and who) just went down (south). we are inherently proud of these moments, it’s just we’re told we should be.
that’s why i suggest we rebrand the walk of shame. let’s call it the walk of game. the walk of fame. or even the stride of pride (my personal favorite). don’t look down as you walk up frat row, hold your head up high and give a high five to the girl with smeared makeup and burn marks on her jacket. she deserves it. she also could use some gatorade.