The other night, I performed my usual Friday night routine: chug water so I do not hate myself in the morning, scramble to think of a costume for "[insert misogynistic theme here]," rummage through every drawer in my apartment looking for components of said costume and then arrive at the pregame either awkwardly early or unfortunately late because everyone already wants to go to bars at 10 p.m. This particular night, I expected to walk into the pregame and see everyone dancing on couches, throwing back who-knows-what and generally wreaking havoc. However, as I walked up alone dressed as a tennis ball
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